A Bastard Wind in Jaipur

later, much later,
warming my hands over a vagrant fire,
I wondered what I dared to be,
I wondered how much I cared to see;

was I left behind by hot desert storms
that blow sand into Jaipur’s unwashed screams,
or am I of the wind that wafts in from the plain
weaving through delicate mustard fields,
what can I claim of these ancient hills,
whose is this this land, these tongue-tied trees,
did I come from peacock feather fans
that cooled the neck of kings and queens,
or was I the breath of a barren wife
who kneaded time into empty dreams;

for a moment I let her veil flutter
and felt her soft rose petalled face,
for a moment her bangles played a tune,
the palace faded from her gaze,
later, much later,
fingers darkened by her kohl,
I wondered where the past began,
I wondered what a stilled breeze can,
who owns the sky I cannot reach
to whom does the dry riverbed preach,
that bird that sews riven clouds
whose is the light she hides from gods,
why was she crying, beneath sequinned silk,
whose song fills my heart, whose is the ink?

I wondered if the scarred moon would know,
where the future ended, where dead winds go,
later, much later.