Friday, May 4, 2007


Early morning fog
Of January
Turning into
Large droplets
The windowpanes.

The fog swirls
Around trees,
On the roads,
Across the bridge,
Hazing headlights,
Slowing traffic

The sound of
The brass bell
Of the
Prachin Bhairon Mandir
The fog

The washed
And sanctified
Stone parikrama
Is cold against
The naked feet of
Men and women

Homeless men
Huddled against
The huge stonewall
Of the temple
Breathing slowly
In their dirty blankets

They wait
For the
Early morning
Devotes who will
Offer them some food.

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