On the floor of The Darjeeling Club
Luscious curves handweave.
The colours are tied blurring
Like flowers growing, up the toes
Of the man with the turban sitting.
On the walls of The Darjeeling Club
Are signs that Man is well.
The muscles on his limbs are heaving
Rocks growling, in the tongue
Of the civilisation he is building.
On the roof of The Darjeeling Club
Pigeons eat some peas alive.
The beaks look as though they are talking
Not at all worrying, about the looks
Of the tailends so gladly wagging.
Bevagna, 10 March 2012
