Red monsters and green monsters
play in the surreal nights
of our private world
that gradually
break into bubbles
when rains fall
on the stones, sands and pebbles.
Who stands on the shore?

Such a monumental stream
of dreams and wishes.

Red ponies, grey ponies
move away from the morning walls.
And those who fish in clouded waters
hope that the structure
one-day will crumble down?
In such a time, our times
we can mend nothing
but wait and see how
water moves along
the unclean drain
to the river,
our own, private world.

Red monsters play,
green monsters dance
and we who have lost
our own pens and brushes
and grope at darkness
sing for them.
We sing together but
no chorus we can make.

I dream last night
and two blue dolls
came out of my body.
And I stood before
a mirror of water
and told my ghostly figure
without head which I pawned
somewhere.
What do I look for
here in darkness?
Only headless shadows move,
laugh and threaten.
Thus democracy loses
to be a culture.
It’s now only
a political catch word.
My land, O my land!
Where are Lalkamal and Nilkamal
who could slaughter monster?
And shadows melt in shadows.

Green monsters, red monsters
play in our dreams.
Where are our anchors, oars
and birds, fragrant and tender.

We live in our private woods
and feel dejected and alone
when we move in solitude.

A bird, sitting on a pole
looks at its shadow
in the depth of water.

Neutrality, no quality
when your world cut
into pieces as if fish.

Seated at the corner of a porch
we look at the cactus,
dew-soaked and pale.

No wounds, the buffaloes
come and go in our dreams.
No hand free of dirt.

Summer evening moves
and basks in neon light
I stand crest fallen.

Knives and knives move along
the smooth canvas of the sky.
Capsicums grow yellow.

Donkeys bray, terrified.
Xerox machines copy our heads.
We move headless.

Who are those, walking
along the long canal
and throw paper-bits to water?

In darkness their faces lost.
I long for my own face.
Where that? My mirror!

Coming close to water
I whisper to my own shadow.
A golden bird flies over my head.

I return home and stand
in the yard, wide and open.
I look at me, I weep.

Telephone rings repeatedly.
And the distant azan
as if a bird-call
slowly enters the room.
The lizard ticks on the room.
The lizard ticks on the wall.
A frog croaks continuously
from the corner of a water pool.
Who knows what
determines the go of the day
and how.

Water gurgle out the rain pipe.
Two kids get drenched under fall.
The photographs of Thirparapu fall
remind me of a few days
of my life I spent near
the frost and the river.

I turn over the pages of
my yellow diary and grope
at darkness down the memory lane.

You could look brighter.
The burden of life seems
to be hearer on your face.
And we forget the seas.
We forget the trees.
We forget those photographs.
We wash our hands and faces
and sit to dine together.
Moriom, try to remember
that water loves water.
And apples fall in out private chamber.

With these words, I change the batteries
of the wall clock and put the raincoat
hanging from a nail.
Why Bartles away to Comemara.
The red pones, the grey pones
toss to and fro.
Who rocks the cradle no violently?

Then we vermimiscei our days
and our nights, wonderful.
Still none come to save us,
our crutches, our greatness
perennially more towards darkness

The red ponies the grey pones
look for for water, ask for light.
We only wait for crutches.
Our seeds don’t trust into seedlings.

Kastanka, the Chekhovian dog
knocks on the observed door.
His paws, seeming two faithful hands
cares the human baby.
Walking along the canal
I move towards the Kankalitala
one of the 51 piths, holy places
whose Sati’s chopped off body fell.

I hear wrapping, lashing and cry
allwer, all where.
And I croon a song
That befits the occasion.

And thus I chloroform my conscience.

Two slams run across the field
and disappear into the sugarcanes.
I own their shadows
on the still under of canal.
I think and more.

Returning home I sit by a candle.
Dwness the tress darker.
Thus we live, survive and laugh
to the sad faces around.
And in the morning
we put on the morning
we put on masses and go
to the places where we meet
other faces, sed and made-up.

We have lost our voice
into the frost of hazels.
We have lost our helmets
into the frost of hovers.
We have lost our clothing
to the forest of hoses.
and have put on the dresses
left by the ghosts adoring.

Still in our dreams birds row
Still in our dreams birds sing.
Still in our dreams birds turn to gold.

We units for birds to come
We unit for rivers to flow.
We unit for undreams to visit.

Takes climbing shrubs
and I get attached to them.
Attachment doesn’t always
speak of love but hatred,
antipathy and fear too.

Morning sun blanketed
by heavy clouds and I
standing by an old well
look at my reflection
dim and very ugly
on the well-water.

The paperman throws the morning news
and aks for lastmonth’s bill.
His unrst and busy-ness
Move me to recollection.
Recollection of what?
I think and think.
And I come to conclude
that nothing to be recollected.

Tee the ready. I take tea and news.
All on a sudden a ghust of wind
thuds on the window-panes.
But no cats are there
to press their faces there.
No parts their faces there.
No parts of fogs
I see the well
and the still air their in.

crows come and to
and I look at them
in a queer way.
I seem that I am
Looking at some lost sows.

Green portcns on the table.
Where from do they come?
I sit to think.
And them a bird comes
to sit on my wind.
A golden clour bird.
I start shivering
on my bed.

The slow and steady wins the race.
The story of a hare and a tortoise.
And in the marrow of my bone
flows a river, a river that
knows the secrets of leaves
and those of seeds also.
And now, when it stops raining
I listen to the rustling leaves.

Gradually I move forward
and catch the sight
of a yellow bird
and feel a shiver in my heart.
Water flows
over the pebbles.
No star in the sky.
I can’t measure my age
and think to wonder
how the days have passed by.

Dreams are ephemeral
No, dreams are strong
and long lasting.
If not, how the river flows from
the hill top to the ocean.
blind pools are
cockroaches and grasshoppers.
Now should I come to think of
worms, worms living in me.

After rains the snakes bask
on the banles, in the jungles,
in the bushes
I gradually move and pick shadows
from the flowing water.

Letters that I recognize
and decipher from the stones
cannot hold me back from
creating new ones.

Stones, do not refuse my love
my affection and my regards.
Smoothly I do love
all stones all peoples all voices
and very self. I discover myself
gradually in darkness.