Wednesday, 16 September 2009

wherein she laments for the lost touch

the city
cloys on the senses
like an old
whore with cheap
perfume
crying
as a beggar does for alms
for intercourse

and then
she dies
near the nostrils
and cries
her last cry
don't leave

but leave we must
as the incense makes us sick
incense is also offered to
gods
lost gods


4 comments:

Anurima. said...

I like the font colour and the resulting contrast with the background. Somehow, red is a perfect colour to frame in this old city, fading at the fringes, smelling raw and strong... beautiful little piece :)

Baudolino said...

Kobitaa...obosheshe. Hmph.

Bhooter Raja said...

i like

Madhuri said...

Hey Ahona, are you talking of Calcutta? I love the smell of it, always reminds me of grand pujas! But familiarity, thats a different ballgame :( ... its a powerful piece, i can visualize your relationship with the city perfectly