TALE OF THIS STREET

 Pangs of the dried up milk ducts-
she found refuge here in this street:
the aged mother thrown into crossroads.
Pain of the tender teeth-
it gives those sagging nipples
memories that still tickle.

 A tattered coat under a culvert-
he lay here, frozen:
the aged father, disowned by all.
Chubby fingers he taught to walk-
still live in those lean, chapped arms:
memories still as warm.

She went her last trip by this street:
she, who caught fire on her attire
from the gas stove named dowry.
Marital bliss consumed afire
for the hapless new bride:
memories with butterfly wings.

New clothes, new school bag-
on a joyous trot to her peers:
she was crushed in this very street.
Curly locks and stains of blood
on the black road:
memories of a rainbow of no return.

Burnt-out moth-wings of love-
she set herself for sale
in the selfsame street..
In her dirty songs of insanity
she sings of unborn bastards:
memories of  jinxed feast of the dead.

The tiny hero of street circus
lumped down here,
from the tight rope.
Blood oozing from ear-lobes-
the last sacred drops:
memories of little-tasted breast-milk.

He who set out to change
a world you should well have done:
he was betrayed here.
Those who sang dirges of revolutions-
they shudder at his spilled blood:
memories that give them the shocker.

Still, at every turn
it’s witness to all that was seen:
This is how
 this street became a Sufi,
blooming not in spring,
and wilting not in summer.