I wait till i reach a state from which there is no escape but to write.
You are white, so are
your clothes.
But your hair is black.
At your age, it seems alright.
It smells of oil and shampoo
And essence of vanilla
and then there is some other scent
i cannot fix, but takes me
twenty years back, memories
of a destroyed land where
there was a well with ferns and mossy rock,
big buffaloes, large lizards
and birds and frogs and flies.
