I heard the wind from India
its cacophony of voices
dialects and languages
street cries and noise
I saw the wind from India
its explosion of colors
a rainbow streaming
past and down my face
I smelled the wind from India
saffron and incense
blowing, radiating hot
from glowing pots of iron and clay
I am washed by the wind from India
I am become the wind from India
I am the song of the wind from India
Photograph: Varanasi, the holy city on the Ganges, by Piotr Wojtkowski via Public Domain Pictures. Used with permission.
6 comments:
Gloriously - and authentically - captured in the moment..
Amazingly vibrant with imagery. Beautiful!
This is lovely!
i am washed in the river
and laid on a stone to dry
in the wind of india
I have a number of friends who have spent time in India, which remains for me a complex of opposing images such as I find as I read "behind the beautiful forevers" by Katherine Boo (it's a marvelous book). The voices, the sounds, the smells, the sights... yes, they are all so strong in India, as your poem conjures them.
I was expecting to see a photo from JofIndia ... powerful imagery in your well-placed words.
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