One lonesome thursday evening,
Entombed in glass,
Staring into the eyes of a foreign land
As a night came to life in its blinding lights,
As red watermelon flesh melted in the warmth of my lips,
As a stranger's scent parleyed with my senses,
As an escalator lived its own death,
I saw Chapman's Ithaca,
Lost my heart in the empty streets of Buenos Aires,
Smarted at the taste of eternal darkness,
Rode the sea's whiteness with your friend Melville
And felt time's sands trickle through my fingers.
Stranded in the middle of everywhere
I was no one, I was every one.
As I read you, Jorge Luis Borges,
As I read you.
[8 32 pm | 12/03/2009 | Bangalore]