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Thachom Poyil Rajeevan | r/e/c/y/c/l/i/n/g

PRIVATE 40, p. 40-41, photo Anabell Guerrero, text Thachom Poyil Rajeevan

PRIVATE 40, p. 40-41, photo Anabell Guerrero, text Thachom Poyil Rajeevan

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by Thachom Poyil Rajeevan

Beware them
who come asking for old shoes.

Wearing them one by one
from the bigger to the smaller
they will walk along the path you walked once,
like crossing a lake stepping over lotus-leaves,
turning into a gnome in each step.

Memories, like water weeds
won’t loop around their legs
as around yours,
nor will forgetfulness, like whirls
will drown them as they did you.

Straight, they will reach your demolished house.
Rummaging the refuses,
they will pick out washed-out plates
and emptied bottles,
and eat and drink from them-
all would be unopened till then.

They will reach down the books
read long back and stacked in the garret,
and open them-
all would be unpublished till date.

They will carry the broken chairs
dumped in the backyard,
and sit down on them-
all would turn warehouse-new.

They will take the tattered shirts
kept in the wardrobe for beggars and refugees,
and put on them-
all would smell fresh cotton.

The clocks stilled in the closed-rooms
at various times will strike:
one, two, three, four…..
Past the embryos of shoes
that lie either in the corridors
or under the staircases,
their thorny legs
will fall on your pulsating
head.

Beware them
who come asking for old shoes.

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