Last week of September. Evening after sudden rain.
The windy landscape. The shifting sand.
A road starts from an ancient city, from the ruins of stones
where the cemented grains carry legions of history — now unmoving and silent.
A road crosses another city.
In the journey, glasses glide along the stretch of horizon.
Looking at the magenta layer — the indefinite —
they are the countless locked doors away from us, from our history.
Moment after moment after moment — peacocks on the trees,
blackbucks that moved in the bushes, cold fireflies on the mountain walls,
a small carriage drifting on a road of Thar desert — in the vast darkness,
In the soft moonshine, vaults open.
The woman carrying yellow bag remembers her child,
the girl dreams of white porcelains in a house of some strange city,
Fluttering shadows of men stand on the dunes holding moderate stones
whose engravings can be clearly seen by touch — one syllable for each traveller.