Indian Sun is in my Veins

The Indian sun is in my blood
It rushes, boiling, through my veins
It scourges
And it lights a fire

It spins up sunstorms, fire breathing
And, like a dragon, rages through me
Slithers, scuttles, swoops, and flies
And as it simmers underneath –
My skin is cold and tantalised

Oh, cold fire –
You almost soothe me
Oh, waking sleep –
Of broken dreams
You truly are Verona to me
Boiling, beckoning, banishing me

You cannot eat me, Indian sun
I’m captive to a brighter Star
And you can roar and you can fight
But you can never win this war

Yet, all the same, the Indian sun
Combs my hair and beats my head
And leaves me bruised and aching still
In flights of unrequited rest

From Blue Chunni

Indian Princess

I’m convinced she is secretly an Indian princess. I mean, look at the way she wraps her sari so fluidly, swiftly, delicately – as if she were a ballerina twirling en point. And the way she walks so gracefully, so regally…. Even the way she cries is elegant. She says she must sleep in the room by the door because she does not prefer the air conditioner, but I wonder if it’s only because she wants to be nearer the gate. So that when her rescuers come she will be restored all the sooner to her palace and her glory.

From Blue Chunni