Looking outside from the teacher-abandoned classroom, crows bathing on tree-tops in rain. Think: a body of meat and feather suspended midair as if it were nothing, gliding through nothing. Still amazes common sense despite logic.
The watery pitch road reflects my umbrella-holding silhouette in the sky. And now the muddy footpath marbles whose edges are traced by the rolling water.
What I present is not poetry, but montages of a mass of experience juggling, nurturing which can be sprung out fine strands of beauty. But that's an art that half-eludes my vision. It's just a pureness in rain that washes up reality, that I can't give words to.
A rain soaked foggy window cleared by occasional trickles of drops, viewing which I write. Think: what poetry can come out of this? Shapes outside cannot be made out, but blurry patches of abstract colours- red, green and all- mingling into each other.
Now water multiplies water as I catch glimpse of the lake through the water. Now the man besides window brushes the glass to look at the girl outside.... I feel an urge for vertigo.