It was a bright night
With thirsty clouds,
When I smoked an Agarbatti
Under a Tulsi tree.
I gazed up north
To see capitalist slums,
Waiting to be ruined
By a communist regime.
Though, there was a hiccup
In their throat.
It was coming from west
As an army
Of imperialists.
But even the army
Was slow,
As it was drenched
In tears
Mixed in Atlantic Ocean,
Tears from south
Of the Mediterranean.
The world was a mess.
It had regular patterns
Locking my individual existence,
And I strive for an identity.
Just then I noticed,
Their fingers make
These patterns. While,
Their eyes are on me.
I had something
Which made them feel,
They are incomplete.
The thirsty clouds
And their thirst
For my Agarbatti
Made them cross
The Tulsi tree.
Since, I had irregular patterns
Which made them strive
For me.
– Shantam Sahai
