through the bamboo thicket
like a silver disc bisected
the moon was shining soft
and the smoky mist held aloft
a curtain drenched with a song
a rustic meera version two thousand thirteen
swept the blackish green
with her devotion...
a small gathering...drooping eyes...
people from the village turban on their heads tied
nodded in appreciative mood
and there I stood
a little distance away...
my body leaning against a tree...
restive pensive satiated me!
the woman sang of love
krishna going away far
be-longing that even the twinkling stars
high above the sky could also feel
a sweeping sense of a seperation
dripping like watery molecules fill
the air...the space...
the tired sleepy balmy faces...
the silver ray...
cut into several shreds of paper thin
slices fell on the ground...
on the woman's face partially silver grains found
tears and got easily mixed with the flow...
an intermittent buzzing of insects wild and unknown
added natural music to the show...
and I felt the softest palm
resting gently on my head...
slipping lethargic from there down
on my breast placed...
a saffron dress...
with a whiff of flowers
seeped into my being...
the show had ended my eyes opening
I saw
but the curtain remained
and the paper thin slices of silver
on the ground
and the tune reverberated the rural air...
kept me there bound...
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