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Autobiography

Jyotsna Phanija

Isn’t time a refugee
captivated by memory?
Captivation is like counting sand.
Sand, which doesn’t have insulation.
I live in sand
Eat raw carets
Speak poetic language.
I have home everywhere
In the sand, in the dust.
In the time
In photographs
News papers carry food.
I wake up.

Quiet windows
make the monologue of early sun audible
throughout
square mirrors of unventilated room.
I take a walk.

I read a book like listening a song.
Clapping in the water
pronoun “You” is always almost incomplete.
Writing table
tolerating the sound of tearing the white papers
consoled by the smell of the sun
recycles itself.
Tea watered page
copies swollen eyes.
The season won’t rain to put you to sleep.

How does it feel while listening to your own voice in recording?
Is it the time to perform?
How long would it take for the final draft?

We travel
long way
Taxation of memories
make us live through.
How did the time do?
In early lessons of cryptography?
We are no longer
at the candles
lighting in barrage.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
     
     
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