Since she left, there’s a festering revolt on the tongue,
But adulating in English feels ever so galat1 on the tongue.
She’s evaporated into the eld, a man of the future remains,
the cacophony of civilization puts a halt on the tongue.
Clawed out vinyls, strung bouzouki and drunken blues,
Scraps of her music linger, malt on the tongue.
The nawab clings to cinders, yearning for yesterday
His paan performs a final somersault on the tongue.
Nazar’s glassy gaze melts fractals into the sands,
That summer sublimates into cobalt on the tongue.
Mildew clings to memories, a flitting hippocrene,
The names of silhouettes default on the tongue.
in this lacuna: tigers shed skin, magpies go mute,
stanzas sputter, ink and pen waltz on the tongue.
when she shattered into spring, supernovae showered
galaxies of pepper-and-salt on the tongue.
Who are you fooling, Aflatoon? She’s an ash heap of history?
You’ve done nothing but exalt on the tongue.
***
[1] wrong
