Untitled.

Life hangs in suspended silence.
The noise from the carburators
Travel through a haze of brown gray smoke
And crash against the eardrums.
A silent noise.

The greenery around the open grilled window
On the highest floor of the blue skyscraper,
Look tired.
The cuckoo tries hard
Harder than its tiny voicebox allows
To break through the tiredness,
And the silent noise.

The sound of men
Squabbling over a lost piece of metal scrap
The voice of the hammer
Hitting over and over again
The flat piece of steely aluminium.
Sound tired as well.

Who shall draw the first blood?

Ozone displaces oxygen slowly.
Life gasps.
Sunsets turn redder.
The sky a brighter shade of Turqouise blue.
She looks like an expensive painting.
Safely kept inside a glass cage.
Untouchable.Distant.Cold.

Can colours be so cold?

The color of the earth
In the town of my chilhood
Was a warm red.
Skins turned a warm brown
Baked by the warm chrome sun rays
On long summer afternoons.

The musty smell of ripe jackfruits
Drew the fruitflies to our cricket field.
Their large eyes
The colour of warm strawberries.
Our knees and elbows
Scraped by the warm black streets
Smelled of sticky pus
and grew tough brown scar tissue.

Warmth was a colour in itself.
Barefoot.Careless.Adventurous.

The silent noise
Crashes through my eardrums.
Colors mix into each other.
Lose their identity
And assume a neutral spineless shade.
The shade of colour
On the walls of the shopping malls.
On the shiny hair of ladies fair.
On my myelinated nerve cells.

My corneal rods and cones
Hallucinate frequently nowadays .
A butterfly escapes
The manmade highway choked with automoblies.
It flutters away in zigzag glee.
Inbetween the old brown houses
The bright yellow and green of its wings
Vanish into the blue sky above.

Synonyms remain none.