The amber ambrosia of pink evenings scatter
revisions of hope on satellite television revised
for night’s fodder. Three stray dogs bark at midnight in differential segments of tunes, all
three diffident because far they are from the
moon. Automobiles leave dust that aeroplanes
trace over clouds, all a smoky valve of
brownish-purple. While the music lasts, blades
of half-dried grass scour breezes and clad
themselves with pollution and dust. “It will be
monsoon soon”, I hear somebody say. The acid
rain of this year will perhaps be more stringent,
I must think. The books lay lined upon wooden
shadows of drawers where passages in echoes
of unread pages reside. There is some hope, for
rosebuds in the garden are half-opened for night.
The dark dashes against the maroon-red as blood
slowly makes its way through the veins. The city
does not sleep and yet is restless in its hiding.
Found in folds of crepe textured history, Sneha Subramanian Kanta finds resonance with the avant-garde and dispossessed. She is a GREAT scholarship awardee and pursuing her second postgraduate degree in England. Her award winning poem 'At Dusk with the Gods' won the Alfaaz (Kalaage) prize. Her work is forthcoming in Dialog Journal, Brickplight, W.I.S.H. Press and Dying Dahlia Review. She has also been featured in international literary anthologies such as The Dance of the Peacock (Hidden Brook Press, Canada) and Peacock Journal's first print anthology published by Little Red Tree Publishing and elsewhere.