The Oldest Pigeon In New Delhi

That rock which you had thrown at me
rests now at the bottom of a quiet sea.
When the waves touch my body, they make me
as restless as I was
the day we separated.

Above us, in the air,
before the dying light,
it used to live.
Observant to where we went,
of our brick walls
and the windows
from which we would stare at the world,
craving each other's love.

At times the air was cold.
It rested away from us.
Making the most of it's breathing,
of all it's morning reflections.
The glistening of the world we see
was seen in it's eyes.
Was there ever a sound it made
or confession, repentence... sacrifice?

Across the dark realistic precisions,
changing which way to fly, but,
to your doorstep never to fall,
to cut the weave of the sky, into destruction.

Rustic stories and
dusty roadways,
for them, our anthems may be sung.
But it's charming nests and offsprings
may as well be never unsung.
To that distance
it's gestures presented,
where a rising crescent,
even the faintest of suggestions, could represent
those arched entrances
or domes and crosses,
of which it dreams at present.

Interpret, speak not with fury.
Its dream we dared to utter,
ring now as loud as tolling bells.