A red wall adjourned like a gramophone,
Swallows the sun in its plasters, as a man
Leans into the day with an ark on wheels—
Burlap moons bound by ropes; its spokes
Draw a slow metronome against the pavement,
As sandals whisper on hot tar.
The forenoon is a sentence without punctuation:
the chain, the crank, the crass quietness of paint on metal;
A city angled like his jaws, and sagged
Like his sacks, as a tired continent.
A radio song plays out like a muffled cry,
As if from behind the wall, clattering into a hymn,
As somewhere a child unlearns hunger by begging for sweets;
Another block, another breath, another inch,
Another camera shutters relentlessly,
A blob of Calcutta.
Arup K. Chatterjee 