Thursday, March 13, 2014


March, '14

Halfway to the top of the world,
when the forest's spring lay before
him, he had only begun forgetting
that blue bull which had run across
the jogging track, and last night,
in Castle Nine, that boy in white.

He stood against the sun, now all white,
and the forest, 'the refuge of the world'
Jahanpanah - stood like no night,
no darkness here could pass before
it is smuggled into the flowers across
all the breaths he took, all the forgetting

he could - the hardest of all is forgetting -
"little by little" is the promise, but so white,
so drained of colour, that standing across
two steps of the viewing-tower, the world
could now only take off its wool, before
summer comes (when the desert sends night

to Delhi) the bougainvillea stalls the night.
"New things must mean that forgetting
happens quicker" - he knew that before
the past goes, there's already the boy in white
and already, his eyes could claim the world,
could claim the spring somehow left across

this impending of summer. He saw, across
him, the pea-hen flying down, the night
must be closer than he thought, the world
must be closer now to that sort of forgetting
which comes slowly like the soft white
sky after the desert-night of longing, before

every thing again is dark, and before
all promises, good and bad, made across
the falling of rain, or in the harsh white
of the sun, fold again into the night
which like that dream of forgetting,
he folds, like the promise of his world.

Before the Castle Nine boy, the world
splayed across these dunes of forgetting,
was white hot, and ended each night. 

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