BURNING POEMS
They are singing
till date
by taking drop by drop
from the wordless
notes of sound
mumbled by
my primordial mother
on the banks
of Pahruli River.
Those who knew
how to read the notes
of the stratosphere
inscribed before
the alphabet was born
on the day
the universe
came into being,
keep on writing
afresh.
Nothing is born
anew.
Whatever born already
has not given up itself either.
For our people
shivering in the cold
of this continuous rain,
I ward off the chill
raising heat and
warming up
by burning on
sheets of poetry
you have not yet read.
In the stench
of poems burning,
the ghost of this
metropolis
jumps on the rails
and commits suicide.
When the rainwater recedes,
the rainwoman
who burns the poems
picks up the half burnt
and part intact
pages of poetry
and saves safely
for the next rainy season.
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