One singular day,

she told me about it.

That riding the bus,

she had found extremely beautiful and elegant

this image of this girl

who was writing in her book,

as if to capture some fleeting thoughts

of immediate importance

or just writing en passant,

some theories which could transform future

perspectives of humanity,

or maybe even just some gibberish, who knows


But i could imagine her, the girl

and her also, this onlooker,

the woman who found living poetry

in the form of the writing girl

in this filthy,crammed old CNT bus,

She beholds the girl, and i , her


The bus, en route to the university,

filled to the brim with sweating intellectuals

and she, to whom my father jokingly says

that black alphabets were equal to bulls

Her innocent awed look of a child awes me in turn

Trying to imitate with unstable hand,

the act of writing, with a bare finger ,on the wooden table,

she herself is, poesy incarnate


kabirdass's words ring true at that moment

that the deer searches the musk everywhere in the forest

without knowing that its in its navel itself that it resides..