The lurking eye-liner, peacock tails
In all the vibrant cyans, making sad little pockets
Argus’s sockets. Blue is the asphalt
That grows cold in the night and bakes the feet
At sunlit hours. When journeys are etched on
Blue roads. Crowded strangers with the strangest
Tales to tell – how the lightning took the tallest coconut
Or how the blue water spurted from
The new artesian well. It seem the heights
And the abysses are both hiding little collections
Blue is the sessile night, anxious in her heart
Wondering whether the monsoons will ever fall.
It is the dress that slits to the hip
And falls to the diaphragm, leaving little to the
Imagination. There are kingfishers
Fishing with their eyes and harpooning with their beaks,
And blue whales are found in Mirissa, where
Azure and Aquamarine lunge to a brokered kiss.
And blue is the imprint of war
The understories of graveyards. The whispers
That never made it to an ear drum of a loved one.
Missing is not just a poster on a wall
It too is a life sentence to a grieving heart
And through the bluest notes of flutists
And the blue sarongs on rolling wheelchairs, we see
The legacies in blue. A corridor in time
That heals the tears that never flowed.
And blue is the peacock who crosses the road
Of a landing strip where planes
Logoed “Mihin Air” land. And a few miles down
The road, a woman with a clay pot
Searchers cracked earth for a promise
And in this wasteland, blue is omnipresent.
It is everywhere; on the rods and cones
In the retina, inside lobes of the mind, even
In the veins that carry carbonated blood
Even in a child that wears a blue amulet
Around his neck. We are only as blue
As the copper suns that never set and the cobalt moons that never fade
And our lives are like pieces of litmus paper
That ceases to be blue.
And we travel on inked boulevards
Searching for the meaning of life
Knowing deep down, every dawn is a bookmark
And every day is a scripted page
And life is only an unmapped journey
To find a blueprint of life.
We call that blueprint, true blue.