The cats are yawning.
A faded dawn, a long, soundless light.
In the refugee tale of sunlight,
a wrong journey along a road of dust.
Rain falls in the classic dawn of jasmine flowers.
Beloved words are birds taking flight.
Beneath a fire-red night,
a long sigh torn from dreams.
The darkness of a red day—
no light comes to walk beside the river.
A plundered village of trees, the heart of clouds,
the light of the eyes.
The noons weep naked in a bath of fire.
Darkness grows wet— love-burned, destitute,
a scorching thirst, thorns of water.
The cats leap into the Padma and the Meghna,
in the scent of light torn from its roots.
With other eyes they dream another dream,
in the green house of dead sunlight
that has fallen asleep.
