The Wind Song (draft)

There's a song in the wind
There are words.

The south wind roars
deep, aloud
swirls
in giant waves
over her hut where the river ends.
Tonight she will soak her hair in the wind
and sleep beneath the stars.

And in a damp little room
In a damp little city
Alone
A wordless poet struggles for breath
Where the wind doesn't reach
Lungs and craving arteries
Empty, blank.

Tell me who unleashed the city
over this landscape
Stretched it like an unrolling carpet
rugged with time,
rugged
so,
if you reach beneath the surface
you will
feel the grass and the mud and the soul.
Tell me who it is the city awaits.

And tell me who entrapped the poet
in this body
diseased,
dying,
devoid of blood
And tell me who confined the poet
in this mind
lost for words, lost for
thought, lost
for belief.
Tell me
who cursed the poet
to untimely death.

"Beloved, there is no god
within these walls
No sight, no solace, no
respite. - I cannot dream..."
I cannot sleep
these days,
no more, I wait
for the seagull's scream
above my head, I
wait
for the gales to blow
away the floor,
The dust will sparkle.

But was she the nymph
of the south winds, some aeons ago,
do you know when she forgot her name?
Do you know if the city smog
chokes her, if the chains still
bruise her ankles, or where
does the yellow cab take
her every night?

The computer has fallen silent, the cell-
phone the footsteps and
so will the clock and
the heartbeat
soon - Talk to me!
I yearn for voice talk to me
Talk to me about anything
everything the grass the
soul the cliff the hut your father
who left for the wind
and never returned...
how she lured him to sea.

And why
does the yellow cab take her
every night
to the abandoned graveyard
whose ancient bones
does she try to sooth
with her gentle fingers
of breeze?

This city was not built
for the winds.
I wonder
how they forgot
that the river
leads to the sea, and
the sea to the winds.
And one day
the winds will steal
the men the songs the souls

And when I die, sit
by my grave for a while
and plant me a krishnachura.
Plant it such that every breeze
will shower
petals like sunset
petals like blood
I shall be
red.

I shall be red.