Saturday, October 14, 2017

letter from one weary bombay night

Come, dance, what else is there to do?
too much dust on the lenses. Fireflies fly no more, 
except occasionally;
Mocking bird mocks no more. It is sad. One mad donkey
named Civilization 
beats the dust, 
brays on. It is nothing.
I would have rather named it Platero
I would rather name each speck of stardust – Love
This will not change anything. This is not meant to. 
This is where, cities of the halogen night
meet naked rivers made of mist. This is where everything
turns into time. This is where we must dance. 
Nothing ever has been 
as beautiful
as this silence.

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