Midnight Moorings


It was past Two in the Night,
how lucky those stars are in
the blue, still and serene,
I go back to my past days when
I too would move along with the
Stares, high and unaccountable,

I stare through my balcony,
for some poetic fowl and chicken
to be fried upon in the pan of
Undisturbed and unpolluted
imagination, fertility shoots up
in a steady write-up.


When humanity is sleep,
Some snore, some pretend, some toil,
I am awake, my eyes wide open,
There is neither sex nor secrecy,
Only eyes wet with tears, for willful
Suppression of secrecy and tactful
manipulation of it,


decades don’t collapse,
the secrecy is laid threadbare,
on the tree some bird calling,
articulated language distinct,
calling, calling calling
like London calling,
like London calling.