Time

The old man on the park bench

Mutters to himself something

He has read or heard somewhere:

It is easier to forget

Than be forgotten;

Time flies when young.

The green peacocks

That cannot fly

Turn red in season;

Time moves in various colours.

The parrots cannot be still or quiet

They screech from tree to tree

Seem always in a hurry;

Time is frenetic around them.

The funeral procession 

Pauses every now and then

To set off serial crackers

What are they celebrating

But the death of time.

Full moon

In the morning there is little trace

Of the night that put you to sleep

And lulled the mind with dreams

The slant shadows the sun causes

Trail you till they subside in darkness

Fear of transience darkens pleasure 

Every morsel has the shadow of the past

When hunger was a feared beast

The flames of the sacrificial fire

Cry for more than ghee and grain

They have tasted sacred flesh before 

To the invocations of the war god

The ones who wanted to enter portals

Not meant for everyone have perished

In fiery ways celebrated as divine union

Let the full moon bloom in every dark sky

Make everyone look up, learn to ask why.