falls further away
in myriad of hindrances.
January is not yet monsoon, my loved,
the warm winds play in their
forgotten language nearest to the Queen’s necklace
yet at bay in Mumbai
On the west side,
other winds are
heaving
Bollywood grieving,
along with the heaviest traffic jam
with speech accidents
once clad in shades of peace, green, pink and blue
I picked a taxi kept the shades inside
pressed them into my poetry
As I walked on a part of Bollywood boulevard
one Sunday afternoon
where congregated tongues roamed far and wide
they sang praises in St. Mary’s church
Only St. Mary’s church lay bare testimony to my footsteps –
I sat on an black wood-bench with hot steam on my fingers,
(to melt unwanted words, I reckon) .
Two pairs of blackbirds offered company
in the comfort of their lovely feathers
then flew away
Evening fell lightly in dance
In this Indian huge country
I measured the different tongues, conversations and stories,
theirs were too occupied, too complexed,
I said goodbye
to Mumbai with respect….
©Sylvia Frances Chan