I
Green water of winter, of summers passed by, of shadows wet in love and despair, past nostalgia, past apocalypse, past eclipse,
this water speaks.
This water speaks to me like a stranger pretending to be mine, like a lover pretending to be estranged.
Why must we live in between these two opposite suns ? Two dreadful suns neither owning us, nor letting us be.
We play this game. We try to worship one god. We fail. We stop the works. We destroy the path. We burn. We rise again. We try to worship another god.
The water speaks to me asking me why must I look for records, why must I try to remember the color of my childhood bird. That amnesia is not always a disease. But I keep the count. I keep the count of memories that are vapor. And I call it the source of my devil winds.
I am the black flamingo of tar wings hunting and eating soft roots. My sharp claws and my red tongue have defaced the forest.
II
Earth continues to fold, bend from within. All sea-plants break. There is a cotton storm under our feet.
The writer is a dead dog sniffing the remains of ships of conquerors, sniffing the handkerchiefs of women abducted. The writer is the gatekeeper. The writer is the last woman standing of the iron world. The writer must die again.
And it gets darker and wolves start climbing the walls of my wood shelter. Green water goes quiet. Pulls me into its crystal night. Pen sinks to the bottom. Heavy body of tar wings, cotton storms and pilgrim rocks surfaces.
Vaishali Paliwal
December 28, 2023
