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I Do Not Know Why
Two nights ago you were aloft in a hot air gas balloon, the stay ropes in my hand,
You whirled in ever-widening circles and twirled madly above my head, before I let you go: I do not know why. And then you pitched and forked you yawed and sea-sawed your way to the ground with a deafening thud
There was seared flesh around tattered clothing, and perhaps the smell of death. I was dry-eyed though I do not know why, perhaps, because it was two nights back. And that was such a long time ago.
But last
night we had gone home to our
desert Indus town all those
familiar places even the
flower beds were there, without
flowers though I wonder
why, perhaps,
because we left so long ago.
But then you sent me back,
or said you yourself would go.
I do not know why.
And you walked me to the railway station,
or was it the sea-side wharf,
I cannot remember,
to send me to some unknown destination
or to go there yourself
I do not remember
And I was not dry-eyed
in copious torrents my sorrow flowed
though you rested your head on mine;
and arm around my shoulder
walked me to where I had to go
or where you wanted to show
yourself, to some one else,
I do not know why.
And in our desert town in May,
I was swaddled in heavy coats
to keep out the icy winds
the terrible gales that blew
inside me, and all around.
All that was last night
which was not so long ago,
perhaps,
I do not know,
I cannot remember
I do not know why.
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