[A] People on the sidewalk too are just so many leaves: here now, absent one day.

[B] After a long period of time you meet a short lived flame.

She still is as delicate as the stem of a blue iris you once gave her.

As you talk amiably, you try not to run your fingers gently over her bent neck.

You absolutely mustn't do that for remember you weren't burnt to absolute tinder back then.

In the carousel of autumn, a bird of time spins and spins.

Questions, meant to be lived under, remain open like mouths of shells.

Lost lovers, sometimes, are shadows of cypress trees on moonlit windows.

The airelist heart, emptied of itself, finally has become a banyan tree,

whose rooms of root you enter and leave. And in them, pages

of half-read books flutter open to breathe in bearings of your horizon-bound passages.

I have dwelt in the cave of silence for days, painting its walls with the ocher of words.

And now this talk. So if someone asks why do I write now, what true answer to give?

Buckethead's "Sketches of Spain (For Miles)"

In a strange funky mood after waking up at noon, I have been careening between ghazals, carnatic ragas, old old A.R Rahman songs, didgeridoos, and Miles Davis gold standards, when via YouTube's hyperlink-ism, I found Buckethead, a surrealistic guitarist who makes beautiful music. And if you want to see the man play, watch "Padmasana".