The end of the fierce winter.

The mother needs no time; she needs no place,

Just a thought, and perhaps a silent grace.

The more you leave, the less you lose

Like always, I relent without much resistance

You’ve shown me to fly, Without bearing wings. Just by filling my ears, With a few sweet things.

Woke up Sunday morning, in the paper I read, Bomb blasts in New Delhi, thirty are dead.

“In a world where we write in thoughts and think in words,

Where fish run like cheetahs and whales fly like birds,”

The alarm rings at 6.30,
And twice I hit the snooze.
Eventually I’m up with a headache,
The kind when you have too much booze.