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AISHWARYA IYER
lost in translation

The world settles on the soft ash on your finger
A sudden music is asking you to cry
When all the crows are weeping their far soot wings
On landscapes of ageing sewage
Tarpaulin flaps are closing the eyelids of tin huts
Even dust from roads will not unsettle
The long yawning longing of summer

The clouds do not conspire anymore
The sun is tired of hiding
These afternoons are filled with static silence
Only the clotheslines dance once in a while
To impulsive winds from the distant hills
All the songs are submerged or burnt
In the white untainted slumbers
Of moonless nights

We do not know what has been lost
We do not know where to go seek it
And still sometimes when we are not looking
The sapped skies bleed with incomprehensible answers