Two Months

Oh Delhi, you old yet raw abode
Your veins are flooded
Your bones are cluttered.
The way you boil is impatient,
And your slithering chill sedates
Yet culminates the hearts.
You rise and you run the miles.
You do not sleep or yawn.
The wind you harbour is not air
It is life playing and bruising
It is hopes assembled and raged.
How I hate your guts
The way you churn our souls
There is a dishonesty in your honesty
And dishonesty that reeks of honest pain.
You can turn a rock into gold
And make titanium crumble
That is your might, your force.
Love has a million meanings to you
And yet love for you is pure.
You can take more than you give
And what you give is forever more
Than what we take in believe
And you ever did the candid
Show that outdid forevermore.
Change of seasons and weather
That muses the muse and troubles the breath
They say you reek of inhumane shell
Yet I find a humanity lying in your fissures
Strange, frightening and intimidating humanity
In the furnace of your revolutions
So fierce that it tans the souls
Makes some wings rust and some soar.
You withdraw whatever, whenever you want
And you give like a humble old woman
Aren’t you fascinating?
Never growing old, never the same
Such cage of sad pleasure
Such land of rising dreams
For heartbreak enliven wants
Weaving their meanings in your lap.

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