Monday, September 26, 2011

M.a.r.i.a

She cooks by morning
Washes a sink full of dishes by noon
And twists to the Radio by afternoon.

She teaches by evening
Plays the Violin by night
And writes till dawn.

She rolls by morning
Smokes pot by noon
And twists to the Radio by afternoon.

She drinks by evening
Injects love into her blood by night
And knocks at your door at dawn

She says: M.a.r.i.a
You say: W.h.o

One Hundred Years Of Love.


I touched Marquez's Solitude after half a decade
Again.
I figured that my relationships so far
Have had a similarity with the village of Macondo
At the time of Arcadio Buendia
For all of them seem to be so recent
And invariably ephemeral
That most are devoid of names.
And to speak about them
It often becomes necessary for me to
Point.