Three rivers north of his home, the inlayer placing red jasper in white marble, as the calligrapher ordered, reads “Waaldduha” – “by the glorious morning light,” – keep the faith, the Surah says, be it day or night, so like him, twenty thousand workers over twelve years would wait to see the white stone of the Taj Mahal become papier-mâché every moonlit night.
tr. from Rahul Rai's Hindi poem 'Andhera' The dark is not just in the cracks on the corner but also in all this talk of light, not only in unheard distances but also in this nearness.
And as I was thrown this way and that, worn down I made everything so thick so dense that things were then almost dry
but then a bird came from the sky and started poking at me, dropping bits from its beak, and I gathered them one by one; And as we talked - I listened & he'd speak - he deceived me, I, unheeding, kept on hearing, listening to his every word and he kept on nibbling at my trust.
I had an inkling, then it became clear, that this time was against me or was it I out of step with my time?