In the dark I think of ways
Lateral and skywards
Then and now I think him
A tiny paper scrap
Holds all his secrets.
On its glossy obverse
There is a mystic mantra.
Behind it, he smiles
At first unfelt, unseen
His bejeweled child-feet
Touch the orange sky
As saffron pigtailed bearers
Swing his palanquin-cradle.
Beauty waves surge
Amid perfumed sticks
Yellowed holy rice
Sweet banana slices
Fragrant camphor flames.
Metallic discs meet
Fingers dance on drums
To feverish headshakes
Hair tousled,foreheads moist
The blue-sky child sleeps
Behind closed eyelids.
7 Jan
