Conversation with Kiran

Walking and thinking happen together. Movement can be in my room. Table’s in the middle of my mind. Many conversations grow here. An enterprise of pottery was registered. In the hills a mother paints a win with colourful ink. Soldiers fought in white on blue baked earth. The soil is wet with red blood, baked blood. In a conversation across the table, blue ink can sweep the red away. But sirens had to come. People huddled the shouts of anger. Flags had to kiss the blue sky with a red smoke. No hand went to the forehead. Crush and pain drown the well-being. Walking and thinking can happen together. Let the rust eat the powder. While the baked earth reaches distant shores. Mother’s hand gets tainted money. Kiran is unafraid of the blue ink that sweeps the paper. An enterprise of pottery grows here. They said we conspired for drinks and merry-making. Kiran wanted to add zeroes in her balance. I wanted her crease to crinkle. They marveled at the images in distant shores. Polite remarks were insufficient to drown the sirens. The greens bills could not colour the red earth, baked blood, red smoke in blue sky, white on blue baked earth. Survival teaches acceptance and adaptation. Blue ink was stacked in a threat, contempt waited at corners. An enterprise of pottery hardened by heat. Conversations brew in a pot of blue baked earth. Table is in the middle of my soul. Red lips quivered and crease crinkled. Merry-making was shared in a steaming cup. A small flag fluttered joyously in a red sky. A wet crinkle ended a gap of three years. A wet crinkle embarked upon another separation.