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Stitched Inside a Raindrop
written by: Radhika Prabhu
Our amber skies, drowsy,
bulge above the yellow roofs
of this city made of lemons.
We quite like its sour tinge,
as we lick around its shabby crust
squeezing its juices to smudge our dusk with.
We sail past paper boats
On ancient puddles with tilted treasures.
After lotuses for lunch and sunsets for supper,
we sometimes anchor in the hollows of a footprint.
If we sleep there longer,
we might sink into the brown of the soil,
and sit waiting for a bird’s thirsty beak.
But a little girl in love holds us in her palms,
Oh, but wait!! Don’t be silly – heck.
She blows us off
with one single breath
towards the heart of the fossilized city.
Thickened by a ripen mist,
we have become quite drunk now too!
Slipping in and out of each other,
we’re late to catch our train of wind
along with the other drops of cloud glass.
So, we sit swollen on the nerves of branches,
painting the nails of chill a dull grey.
We miss the deep voice of the skies’ thunder
while we swim here through creaks and frog croaks,
stunned by the shrillness of the human crowd’s din.
Bells and children cackle like half lit lamps,
becoming north stars for our cruise among alleys.
Sodden green streets reflecting slices of light;
Hmm. This earth seems pretty, but oh so confused!
We smile at each other through our curved windows;
we mull over the thoughts we’ve picked.
We’ve travelled across universes,
and it’s all the same:
We vapour our way to the sky from the mud,
only to drizzle back down somewhere again.
But it’s a pretty view, sitting sequestered,
stitched inside a raindrop.