flowing on this body
made of brick and clay,
this body that slowly throbs
to the rhythm of Rabindrasangeet
and the roars of yellow taxis
- modern Royal Bengal Tigers.
On the narrow veins
slow paced steps under crisp sarees,
some brisk black shoes,
and the silent barefoot few.
In this city
one can sniff feelings
unexpressed
under the piles of garbage,
beyond the houses' grilled eyelids,
on the humid air,
sticky as a after a whole night of passion.
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