when the darkness cried
the moon is a ball falling into the sea.
the haze of the city sighing slow at the end of a tiring day, a comma in the whispered eloquence of that jesting storyteller, that old fool, that sutradhar - the night.
with darkness as percussion, he sings of sorrow, and of phonecalls, and a proletariat mind in control of a worker heart.
stories of love. and stories of lusty stains sweeping through the urban shawl. stories of ghalib chewing paan with Van gogh, or Hugh laurie singing unchain my heart, inside a dark room;
as Lal singh Dil stands outside in his chai shop. with the key around his neck He also doubles up as a doorman and a Marxwadi.
and because night is the beedi of the masses, let's smoke a quick one before we search in the water
for the moon that fell into the sea
