The shadow is mistaken for the ink
that flows from a wound…
the shadow, ink, and wound.

Thoughts drown in the morning,
shine at night with the stars,
and splash their colors.

In between, life floats in the sleeves of wind,
when the traffic grows
like the sexual desire,
or some kind of bacterial culture,

when little children learn
multiplication tables,
perhaps to amend
the arithmetic mistakes
bequest upon their lives,

when traders in stock markets defy
all options and futures,
blue chips eat one another like dogs,

when code coolies invent
polymorphism in blissfully married lives,
documentation teams stroke
their egos with eyeliners, hairdos,
and fancy t-shirt slogans.

Copyright©2007, Debashish Haar, All Rights Reserved ®