By Saranyan BV
As I was fast asleep in my bed of roses,
Someone silently moved
The cuckoo clock standing against the eastern wall
And hung it next to the awning through which I watch sunset.
As I sleep on my bed of roses,
The cuckoo comes out of the darkness every hour.
The cuckoo's breast is brown, like the pile of wood stacked on funeral pyres.
The cuckoo would look at the unencumbered nail sticking out,
And blow its honest heart out,
‘It’s not about death I am afraid, It’s about living’ –
It’s time I hang a picture of the churchyard symmetry
Where my father, my mother and my friend have gone before, sleep.
I sleep past my bed of roses.
I do not draw conclusion from the waxing of or waning of the moon
The moon passes through the window over the beads of raindrops
All night,
The good old cuckoo clock minds
‘Cuckoo…, cuckoo…’.
Saranyan BV is poet and short-story writer, now based out of Bangalore. He came into the realm of literature by mistake, but he loves being there. His works have been published in many Indian and Asian journals. He loves the works of Raymond Carver.
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