The moon, in the placid lake shimmers.
I notice when I am told.
An epitome of beauty is one among,
the thousand praises of the moon, I have heard sung.
Even for a moment not, does this beauty in my brain register,
although a question for a moment does arise.
The black, dark lake; Murky, almost solid,
does the darkness deceive me?
The black marble reflects the moon,
but where from has this texture it attained?
The answer comes in a flash.
Concentrated urban garbage! Decades of solid waste!
The affair makes haste.
My brain drains the residues of the idea,
that for a moment had kept me occupied.
For my grey cells were busy, preoccupied.
My mind is playing games, the abdomen its target.
A cavernous cavity, in there has developed,
butterflies, then are let loose!
Meals I had heavy, but no amount of food, could this hunger, satiate.
In a hall with numerous chairs I sit,
with people, scattered in bunches unperturbed, unaffected.
Does nobody a problem detect? Does the queer problem only me affect?
I catch a whisper, it booms in my head.
And I know there is another soul, who has butterflies swallowed.
In a dim discoloured stairway flanked by bushes, I walk.
Not in the bushes, but in my stomach the butterflies rustle.
The voice, pacific and composed, has a body this time taken.
I feel the touch, and the butterflies know something is amiss.
Their existence is in question, just by a solitary kiss.
A lengthy tin block hammered into sheets,
the sheets moulded into blocks,
had the wheels been any smoother, the marble lake would shy away!
A seat in it I take, rickety though it may be.
The monstrous steel-tin amalgamation, unparalled in its job,
traverses the traffic, negotiates the nonnegotiable.
There is commotion, noise and racket rocks the junction.
My ears are impervious.
I hear no haggle, detect no horn blares, not a screech seems to register.
I move towards a preset destination,
the voice embodied, sincere in utterance, mature in speech, accompanies me.
The sound is enchanting.
The butterflies it has dispelled.
