Sunday, April 28, 2019

The aircon

There are sunsets and numbers that add into themselves,

There are green fields, and sum of parts,

Snowy deserts that stretch to infinity,

Ice that melts like hope on a warm Madras day.

Every 'morrow is a waking,

A day to do your shoelaces and ties,

To adjust watches, and judge the time,

To never sleep, but dream with your eyes open.

Summer lasts forever in my city,

The aircon at twenty-seven degree C is my winter,

My snow-capped peaks, my pashmina,

My Buddha in minus five, smiling with belief.

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