The red of the morning contouring itself

            on the black of the night, a chiaroscuro dawn,

            baring her vermillion bosom to the rising sun.

            A night flight between two continents, turning

            into light somewhere over brooding desert skies,

            where the drifting mind soars on falcon wings.

            You have dreamt between distracted archipelagos,

            floundering coral reefs and lost peninsulas, hitching

            dragon rides in a world of camels and elephants.

            You have mapped cultural spaces with crepuscular icons

            of demons and demiurges churning immortal serpents

            in the misty oceans of the milky way. You have lived

            in fear of Jupiter’s thunderbolt and Indra’s vajra, gathering

            gemstone legends from the lands you traversed in search

            of a dark eternity. You have inherited the scent of jasmine

            flowers, the loss of womanhood hanging on pomegranate

            trees and the fate of the ever-wandering khanabadosh.

            Lounging on the peacock throne of in-between space,

            you sip cloudy twilight from a tall glass and fathom

            the sensuous curve of the sky as it meets the sea.

            Blinded by the light of the rising sun, you lose time

            in a kaleidoscope of bewildered geographies, each

            glass bead, flowering as second, minute and hour.

            Now, it is landing time – you stretch, fold away

            the blanket of sleep, apply your kajal and lip gloss

            and tune into the dulcet tones of a language that melts

            into turquoise sea and emerald palm fronds.