Counting aeroplanes.

I sit here in my room counting aeroplanes
as they vanish in the sky, but birds never
say goodbye. The sound of metallic vibrations
slowly fades in the migrant atmosphere,
leaving behind a thin trail of white dust
and here in my old villa some hearts’ wither
and rust.  

Monsoon clouds, humid air, stale city traffic,
a beggar’s wink- like pale stains of memory
they clink and blink. I remember them in
parts, and I name them in Her name- solitude,
my lady. The affable fly comes singing poetry
in my ear and I slap myself, the lizard keeps on
chewing last night’s moth, the ceiling fan plays
the circular songs of monotony and like them I keep
coming back where I count aeroplanes as they
vanish in the sky, hoping I will catch them waving a 

goodbye.

Up in the azure sky, as
the world gently moves by
and some lonely travelers forgetfully sigh
I tell myself: Hey, I am a traveler too-
‘In my head’ when it’s held high,
and we are all travelers when
we die.