It was the familiar din of places that travels without moving, feet that rushes by to expectant arms, feet that dragged slowly to the new fragrance of lonely autumn. I, reluctant to disrupt the delicate momentum of your scent on my neck departed without other souvenirs. Just the scent I took clasped by memory, by intent. I felt the first green sprout of poetry in my bosom when everything else turned brown by autumn and sulphurous garbage. Those towns at the bank of the gray railway tracks looked at me, two fortnights later it would stare at me again, unchanging its cold hard blink-less gaze like a priest to a pagan. And yet, what good was travel when obstinate me carried myself and prejudices to colour new places with hue of death and doom.
I have seen marble inlaid corridors with shifting shadows; corridors where time stood still on the pulse of man. Love once lavished her rusted flames on those marbles and we obstinately believing in dreams travelled to find its trace, fitting our palms into each other. The sun slowly closed his eyes over the sandstone etched portico. My cheeks burned under your lips and I had let your fingers trail under the fabric of the night’s shadows. Nakentha’s dried leaves too had traversed the weary worn out tarmac and followed us hustling like a malicious gossip. I resisted and yielded the following morning against the ravages of oils and kisses. Me, yielded and yours, you left victorious and cruel with the afternoon.