Unsung notes hover from
A mad woman’s song .
She walks with a white cloud in her palms
Heavy moments inside.
Orange jasmines trapped in
The mud walls of her home.
Brittle petals and floral scars.
The dung polished floor wafts up
With orange acridity.
White marble glistens
Like a pale diffidence
Forced into a solid pretence of confidence.
Yamuna caresses it like a watchful governess
Trying her best to convert
The weak marbling into
A precipitated, curdled monument.
Lotuses , jasmines,
Tendrils and rubies
Capsized into the moments of curdling and age.
Symmetric symphonies in frieze.
As she walks into her muddy domesticity
Smelling of orange twilight and curd,
The jasmines are tender again,
Blooming forth from mud packed walls.
She picks them out
One by one from their walled captivity
And tucks them in her hair.
There on the banks of Yamuna,
The marble mausoleum
The capsized rubies have conspired,
The emerald leaves have rebelled,
The flowers on walls
Have fallen like shattered glass.
Paused in space.
Hung in suspended action
Awaiting a bearer to walk by.