A pallid

sheet of paper



teases me

with its randy glare,



pellucid, parched

and humid gaze of a widow



craving for my poetic semen

to fill its womb.



Its wary eyes

expose suspicion



forged by

the calm of an empty street



and as persistent stains

from the wet cups and glasses



at the local tea stalls

in the narrow lanes of the Mangal Bazaar,



it has dappled my heart for life.



But barren paper,

who would whisper in your ears?



Hunger and poetry

cannot stay in the same hut.