
After The Fiesta Ends
I have no inkling to whom and what,
albeit I bid adieu to something, whisper,
"Ave."
During the first few days once the fiesta ends
slow mornings fly in, chirp, and five different
chords I can hear, miss innumerable ones.
At one point of time the chirrups continue
albeit within a jelly-flood of silence.
I cannot fathom those anymore, hear the blue.
I dive from my edge of our balcony.
On the Hemingway days I drown, fall
through the bubbles of thoughts and white noise,
reach the bottom and meet the cacophony.
Bow those are one, soft, viscid.
On the other days I soar, fly too close to the Sun.
About the Author: Although Kushal Poddar has authored ten books, the latest being 'A White Can For The Blind Lane', and his works have been translated into twelve languages, and he has been a sub-editor of Outlook magazine and the editor of Words Surfacing, and he does some illustrations and sketches for various magazines if you ask him, he will say that he gardens a growing up daughter.
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