This city is alive.
I hear its pulse in my veins.
I feel its throbbing in my heart ache.
It speaks to me in the screech of the tuk that takes the bend,
And in the vacuous chirping of the unimpressionable crickets,
In the haughty heaves of the lonesome frog,
And the ocean-like rumbling of a chugging engine in the distance.
Moments morph into a mellow pace.
A cold breeze teases my wrinkling face,
I feel the exhaustion in my warm exhales.
Through the black paint-coated corrugated iron bars,
The blank white wall in front of me stares right back.
Its blank expression fixed in its sombre whiteness.
Even at my dramatic performances
To the tune of my emotions in crescendo,
It remains static like a tacit masterpiece.
If it sings I cannot hear it.
Only the swaying shadows of a solitary coconut tree,
Dance upon its grainy canvas.
The eaves of this house,
the outline of the white blank wall in front,
and the frame of the window I gaze through,
Join to make a triangle,
That exists in my field of vision,
A portal into the maturing night sky,
A sliver of entry for the river of lucidity.
The WORDS Academy