GloMag GloMagDecember2018 - Page 283

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 retired sparrows. 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 through window 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. 283