Anatomy of seven

Grass is wet. Hengshan blues. Solitude is looking at the morning? So is love of love. Ancient geometry! Do you remember, when it rains and the angles pass through the bows? Wind is mad. But I should here watch the water. When the wind is strong it's time to go inside the earth.

May be earth is sleeping under water. May be water is roaring. And gentle is water! May be water is heavy. May be water can’t feel the pain. So I became a cave. Darkness fills inside. Morning plays song. Afternoon dreams in front of trees. The wind becomes wild and tunes into murmur.

There was an old Chinese couple selling fruits in a trolley. A policeman snatched the trolley and the couple begged him to return their capital. The couple with their old steps were almost running after the policeman.

It’s not power. It’s not strength. Not merely weakness. I felt oneness. As if my heart is lying on the road and a pedestrian crushed it with the shoes. I felt one with the old man and lady. I became their son(g).

Music is whirling up. I shout with joy. My body becomes two pieces. And they go inside themselves.

For Calcutta

To breathe in, to sing , to long

Have you seen dark, fresh as winter melon?
Arranged inside the water, sand and stones
And the seaweeds rhythmically
When breeze filters in through the cloud
Moist with moments of shower
And the distant dark, impregnated
In the solitude of green land
Whispers from inside
Fragrance flowing from and outside
Preparing? And miles after miles
As calm as soul of dark ocean
See the mirror melting and shivering?
Have you seen not yet…
The old man going inside
The child spread out with branches
His eyes astonished and erupt in green
And the seaweeds rhythmically
Like a song sometimes
Forgets and sings the tension merrily
And sometimes like horses, black and white
Nearer to the galloping cold wind
Do you want to know thus dark?
How they play inside the solid dream?

Tales from the window

Whisper are you listening?
The leaves learning to walk with the wind
Knocks the trees, returning from abroad
The silence is sleeping inside
And the white building floating on the grassland
When the face of the sky turns feverish
And the wind nurses the leaves
Or a passenger from the waiting room
Silently boarding in the midnight express
Silence, the whisper back again
Yellow from the sky
And a thin white floating above, above the trees
How the night embraces the grassland
And how the rest of the breaths
Walks along the bridge, opens the door again
Like the leaves open too, and walk
After the rain called the smell in
And the wind across the boats
Time like a wave from west to east corner
And if faces are laughing while floating
Few drops of dream from the wall
Few rays of wind behind the curtain.
Leaves are walking, yellow, and again green.

Mirror of night

Come back, night there away smell
Frangipani calling the wind
As moon slips into the bush
And the silent building sets in
A few leaving the gate
Evenings’ trace winning the glory
Riverbed also dreaming
As water allows the night
To carry the breaths
Into the island where a tone
The riding horse and the dust behind
Like a man’s journey in and into the sea
Saw the glory? And earth
Calling the roots
As ocean drowning inside water
Mountains rising rigid
From heart, blowing with the green
And grass whispering where water starts…

Memory of Yangzi

Chanting. But wonderfully the music is revolving, splashing within and outside. A tension that perpetuates like a trekking through forest. From far and suddenly from near a trace of light. The leaves as you may wish, keep dancing like water dances when a young river hugs rocks facing its way. I am not the audience. I am not the performer. I am the eyes of the audience and lips of the performer. You are the secret music that controls my senses. Chanting. You occupy my mind and body like air occupies a flute. And dissolved into your whims I play. You know more. I raise more. You wonder about your smell that ancient graphics absorbs and becomes a code of whisper.

I can’t be chained and yet I am. I can’t be frozen so you look outside of the cloud. I can’t be compact so you secretly desire. I am not the audience. I am not the performer. I am the eyes of the audience and lips of the performer.

Play relentlessly the Pipa. That calls me. Play indomitably the flute. That enervates me. I am not the audience. I am not the performer. I am the wave of your flute. I am the voice of your song.

Bath in the dark

The moon was beyond the cloud
Breeze on the front
Lamps flared in the darkness, roaming
Like the patrol man at the cross.
Blue was no longer gloomy, but a call of romance
Yellow was not boredom, but attraction
Purple not in vain but amorous,
Even white was so vivid then.
Suddenly I found all the edge of sky orange!
Shadow of the bridge hallucinating two amrs
My songs became a small bamboo basket,
Or a girl on the boat.
My hand pressed in yours became warmer and tender...
Your fragrance devided in dream and reality.
Voice was gradually turning from 40 db to 10 db, finally whisper..

(This poem is written by Carol. I didn't find any better painting to describe my feeling)
Sandip