another beautiful afternoon
of the city...
so so sleepy...
the trees even look drowsy...
as if they had like Shelley, the poet
taken opium with wine...
laudanum...
that cliff of that distant hill...
where so many times i climbed,
looking at it...
got a feel as if
i can always climb...
Experience...
they call it...
and an experience sublime...
that city book store
where once a Brida kind
woman my eyes met...
with eyeliners black...
curved right...
in red red dress...
they call it
experience
again
those saints
living in almora caves...
a meagre yet plentiful existence...
o what a coming back...
as if in a dream...
as if a movie seen
and yet to get out of it...
o what a return...
another birth small
within a tiny scale of tiny life...
is it not an afternoon
to die again...
blissful?
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