by Pallavi Ghosh
(New Delhi, India)
As I often feel unruffled
I come to you.
When one cannot hug trees
With closed eyes;
And feel warm.
Cannot hear the slime running through them;
And 100 percent of what I thought,
Boils down to 50 per cent of I want to talk;
And through a continued process of evaporation,
10 per cent of what I actually say.
One can talk still right?
Talk to trees.
Walking in an avenue,
Talking to a battalion of trees,
Who look retired and wise;
Stooping and listening intently
To my blah blah.
But at times,
When I have my magician’s hat on
I become sly. Little impish.
The imagination of another language
So that when others hug you and hear your beat
Some magic drops fall upon them
Like the famous rabbit trick,
And they come more often
To hug you.
Since I cannot.
I can only talk.