Chopin. Polonaise. Mazurka. Etude. Prelude. Waltz. the Funeral March. And the Fantaisie Impromptu.
Eliot. Love songs. Lost city. The yellow fog that curled once more about the house. Souls etherized against the sky. Measuring life with coffee spoons. Coversations that slip between velleities & carefully caught regrets, attenuated tones of violins mingled with remote cornets. Lilacs. Hyacinths. The drinking of tea. Preludes. A heap of broken images, fear in a handful of dust. HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME. Tirisuis. The third who always walks beside you. Hypocrite lecteur. Datta, Dayadhvam, Damyata.
A rocking chair.
Neruda. I can sing the saddest lines tonight. Isla Negra. Slowly dies who. Something of yesterday clings to today. The spans of cements, two breasts, two abysses...held by the concrete calligraphy that writes on the page of the river.
Seth, too. All you who sleep tonight. The Room & the Street. A kind of loving. Unstated intentions. Plums. Red suitcases. A helve of dares, a loaf of shoulds. Sit, drink your coffee. Chinese sunsets. Perhaps, this could have stayed unstated...
And maybe, just maybe, The Who. Run, run, run. A quick one.
A touch of spring.
1 comment:
Sounds wonderful:)
The good days in Bangalore are so good that it makes any other place seem terrible
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