On my way to
the institute every morning,
I cross a repugnant smelling lake
with the froth of seventeen
maladroit industries sending
out their toxic effluents into the
aquatic home like waste to a landfill.
While moving vehicles roll up their
tinted shields to censor out the
inevitably penetrative aroma,
my eye catches one figure that
stands dauntless on a crumbling bridge
smoking a morning cigarette.
I wonder why he stands there, in his
Indian kiln and murky shawl, like clockwork
in the mornings.
Perhaps he tries to take in the scents the world
blatantly shuns, or perhaps he takes
pleasure in seeing the planet destroyed.
His unctuous demeanor as he breathes tar into
his lungs is oddly something that keeps me up
In questioning his philosophies, dreaming up
his family, analyzing his psychology, I weave
up silk webs of lies.
But one Monday morning, when I glance out
the window, my eyes search for that
man whose name I do not know.
He is lost in the wind, just like that bridge
that crumbled into all that’s left of time’s
Divya Manikandan is a resident of Bangalore, India. Who is currently building her own poetic arsenal, painting as a form of meditation and creating short films as a form of expression. Literature is her means of escape from reality, however her reality has always been to become a surgeon.