Winter nights in Gwalior hiding
an unkempt solitude in a long drawn silence
encompassing fort walls, cannons and promises
behind gilded curtains.
The peanut seller goes home early and
so does the bangle seller
as ghosts of a lost memory ransack
and desperadoes rush for a final kill.
Winter nights in Gwalior and a lonely
lantern treading its way on ataxic paths,
subtle halo of a brutal touch where I
once searched a thread that I lost on a tantrum
in a crystal of your eye.
Knowing you would be then
a skin weary of thought
at the end of a humid breath.
