Thursday, April 16, 2009

Sunlight, on Rainbow


Who named it her bow?
It’s my autobiography, not hers.

She just fell down, that’s all.

It’s my story – by becoming thinner than a silk thread and finer than dust, I take utmost care lest even a drop of her gets hurt – passing through her.

What’s more, even she herself is my autobiography.
From dawn to dusk I toil on the fields of sea,
Plough, sow seeds and water with sweat and finally reap the grains of rain.

And at nights, while lying down awaiting sleep,
Just for fun I let the memory of the day fall on that piece of broken mirror.
Oh, sick and boring romantics, you call it moonlight.

You always stumble upon names.
Look at the number of autobiographies I write.
None of them carry my name.
Going only by names, what all you read?
What all you learn?

3 comments:

The Old Geezer said...

do you speak English?

Anonymous said...

What all.... enna regionalism ozhivakkiyal nannayi

Rammohan Paliyath said...

who told you that's all is regionalism? it's not.