INFINITY IN MY TEACUP
Sometime, when the wicker of the incandescent dusk, perched
On the incense limbs of the Himalayan cypress,
Spilled the blue aroma of faraway desire,
All over the candle-lit mist of the valley –
Then, in the saucer of mountain-lost souls,
I found infinity in the fumes of my teacup.
Oriental rooftops stood, like waves in mid-tide, carrying
Paperboats from across the hills, floating in the rain,
Against the frayed Mall Road sun, flowing
Into pressed rhododendrons on young monks’ robes;
When the fog lay broken into faded colours of leaves and skin,
I learned how the stars sewed the mistrals into one verse.
Sometime, when the knocking of the wooden windchimes
Willed me so distant yet so close,
With faint bakery smells and the perfume of unfurling wildflowers,
Pinecone souls split open and the night overflowed;
Against Darjeeling’s matchbox town, the moon
Lit a flame to the rainwashed range of snow.