I thought, smoking a cigarette
“a hereafter world of music”
the shapeless creatures of smoke
dissolving in silence.
The womb of temple is
empty with cold winds and
Louis Armstrong’s heavy voice
is falling like snow.
The air is filled with the sense
of an embrace.
I sit in my hotel room, and see
the whole town live
in slow motion.
Note: Last year, around this time, I was in Ooty with my
grandmother. It was the last time we travelled together.
This poem and a few other photos are the only remnants of
that place now lost in time.