Saturday, January 17, 2009
It is morning, I see you standing on the ceiling,
And those who can't, are happy to sit on you.
Yet we sit far below from where you stand,
We wonder, are we shorter or taller than you?
In the mid-afternoon solitude,
The calm silence is broken, while on you I sway,
O' is it the distant sound of brinjal weeping, as the aruvamanai
Cuts it? Or is that the pain in your legs as you swing away?
Evening wind swooshes the newspaper by my side,
I wake up from my dreams still swinging on you.
I have nothing else to do but fear the world that seats my couch
Maybe I'll drink that coffee and prolong the joy of swinging on you.
Night has fallen, yet you still spurn the floor,
Like an ancient village dweller, I thank thee O' simple pleasure of my life,
Am I cradled in a womb, I wonder in comfort
Is the earth swinging from the sky or is that just you?