Yuyutsu R. D. Sharma

Dream 
of a death in the middle

of market place, 

a mire
of spit,  semen and sayapatri,

a cacophony
of cruel barbers shaving

glossy black hair
of the mountain of your chest.

This the victory
of the hairy mound

of a tree
ready to strangle

breath
of a blue pagoda one day.

This the question
of a potency of a sterile horoscope. 

This the chaos
of the majestic butchers of illusion.

This the secret place
of rhododendrons .

Tearing through
the fragrant domain

of scarlet petticoats
you stepped out into the fields of light

leaving behind
a young Yashodhara

in the middle
of an orgasm.

The flowers in their baskets
do not smell of crisp  books
or rhymes that sing of flowers of freedom.

Pale as pulp of their wiped out eyes
these are stones of destiny
heavy from watery weight of their juvenile dreams

sharp and brash 
as the stones of bleeding mule paths
tearing a wound with
face of a stifled cry
in murky skies of their fast fading infancy.