The melancholia of the night
diffuses in the bandish of malkauns,
a gush of wind
steals the sickle candle flame,
a buzz of cicadas encircles my body;
wears me as an amethyst neckpiece,
my navel encapsules the ‘zzzzzzzzz’ of the insects.
In the depths of my kundalini,
the ocean of the noise echoes,
it rises as mercury does,
it reaches the throb of my neck,
batters me as the sun gingers the leaves of the Cypress tree.
I refuse to give in,
hold to my body and its attachments
as cluster of grapes in the vine,
they ripen,
trickles with sweetness of its manifold desires,
falls off, gets squashed by trodden feet on the ground.
Burnt, tempered with frost, I become a slice of sky.