Change The bucket swallows sweaters, a ball of yarn that bloomed in a mother’s lap, ripe, plum-like it dropped from her sari tumbling towards the kitchen sink full of colours, sparkling, bright, the day white, spills and swallows leaves near the doorstep, a few of her tears, run across her broken cheeks. The balance of dry…

Tell me how do I carry your weight under my skin,inside my blood? Your storieslisten to the walls in Anna Karenina’s heart, the lightpoured out from her bones, they turn into glow wormscarrying the weight of stars.            The night.                                Its scent.                                                 The tremor of beliefin those dark eyes where simoom waitsfor the map in your body to wake…

There’s No Lamp in the World Tonight Darkness is a refugee in our shadows it’s a little child that wakes up in the middle of the night – remembering the rose chintz of my lamp and a milk jug my grandfather brought home from Germany during the World War underneath the rose-gold hue was written…