How I ration out a little of myself to the dust everyday,
And how I master the art of staring at these red walls.
I'll write to you about the rains-
How they break and make
And how they break again.
I'll write to you of these songs-
How they stay stuck to my head
And how they all have no words.
I'll write to you of the poetry these men write-
How they sometimes lack in metre,
And how they sometimes make sense.
I'll write you of the women here-
How safe they feel behind their layers of Khadi
And with their heads of unkempt hair.
I'll also write to you of the voices in my head-
How they tell tales in unknown tongues
And sing long forgotten songs.
I'll write to you...
One of these days.