Dryer overloaded with violet scarves keeps rotating.
Endless rotation of time,
this time
through wash of fabrics, embroidered and fragrant, torn and rotten, loved and pushed, decorating my necks from different times when bodies were possible.
Water from the bath of laborer man keeps flowing. All the sweat and blood pretending to fade. All his lovers planning their exits without ever leaving.
The tub is a stone carved out by hands, one of man, one of the candle planter. Room of water stays half lit. They share their stories of triumph with bodies used up. They listen to the noises coming out of the art of man made political. His wife picks up the knife to prove she is an actress.
They ask each other about betrayals, about rapists. They design solutions in glasses of vapor. She is never earth. He is never river. Dance of doves untogether, together in a tub, unafraid of departures, unsad from a beautified swim, entangled with care, split and battered, untogether, together in a tub.
Water from the bath of laborer man keeps flowing.
I, facing glass of dryer of time, place my three fingers on my winter lips, then pausing in mortal cleanse, capturing the reflection of crimson swan, distant from room of water, I, the carrier of half hinged stories, think of you, your fish mythical.
V Paliwal
