Cheran Rudhramoorthy

This word comes as the voice of the well;   A thousand children— A hundred artists, drunk, lost their way— those who fell  while crossing over the woven coconut fence, clandestinely, in the ecstasy of desire— I know the chapter of

This poem cannot be finished off writing, this song not ended, thirst not quenched; Every memory refuses to be effaced, every plot declines to produce, every face is reluctant to endure. A dream unwilling to dissolve, lingers forever– although I

To not sing about the afternoon Is impossible. The one wandering the desert, his voice wringing with grief, is not the singer— in his path, marble tears of sunlight and patti flowers; The nectar’d voice from the mosque that calls one