Last night's downpour is still fresh upon the city
I sit by an early morning street
and watch the sweeper rake the wet filth.
There are crows, flies and strays rummaging through it,
I too am rummaging through the trash of my memory
for a drop of sweet delight still stray from those fervor filled nights.
I don't know why that particular face and that particular body
or that particular salvar sticking to those curves, hiding nothing.
Amplified undoubtedly, but percolates a similar longing,
As sometimes when the odor stays long after the clothes discarded
and the act done,
That odor, undeniably of another human being
And maddened with restlessness, you rush in and out of rooms,
boil coffee, smoke cigarettes, breathe feverishly in the cold of the balcony,
Till suddenly it disappears, and you are left chasing apparitions in Delhi.
You successfully capture a piece of reality and transpose it into a reflective piece. The ending is nice, sending us off to more imaginations.