Friday, March 27, 2020


I had a friend
who used to tear
the edges off evenings
and weave mats
out of them.

He was a good man.
He locked up
his evening-mats
safely in the cellar
of his own house.

We used to marvel at
the  strips of evening-edges
turning into
the warp and weft of the mats.
Soon, evenings laced with a palette of scarlet, amber,
saffire, saffron,
and emrald green, became mats;
piled high
one on top of another
resting upon
the floor of his cellar.

the insides of the cellar
which sheltered the mats
were filled with darkness.

Those who sauntered by,
Seeking the tones of
a lilting flute,
twilight mantras,
and adhans
were greeted
by a deafening silence.

My friend departed
a few days ago,
leaving behind
his evening-strip mats.

Just the other day,
the wind swept by,
bringing back
some evenings from the past.

None of them had

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