Aishwarya Iyer


The beast walked through us last night, as we saw the cool dusk arrive with floating birdcalls, its shadow passed through the window, white as smoke, out into the sky. And now lines lie divided on the floor, as if a mad orgy of swords. All night electric colours flashed through the dark white walls, as the thin paper song of a cassette coiled with night. Shadows of things have mixed with each other, entered a newer embrace, there are lines and waves of time lost in the weird trace of objects. Cigarettes, matches, glasses, clothes, books, mud. And you seem to have entered the room, an emissary of the beast.

There is no difference between the you and the not-you. My ceiling has opened its cubicle of space to the sky, the lines run out of each other.

We watched the lamplight open, like a broken jaw. We watched the lamplight soothe the dark trees to amber light. Why does light play with me so? Is it your dream I see?

There would be no light without shadows. Perhaps shadows are the essence of things. Replies must be such: you respond as if I had already replied. Like a million seed of eyes I have grown inside you. My colours come back to me in richer hues.

And yet, you are the one who has sketched with his hands the delusion. I dangle effervescent in the scenes passing your eye. And what symmetry in delusion! For when I look into your eyes, I see only me.

What are we, but shadows! A parade of skies. Pure forms moved by wind.