Truth

On some afternoons,
when I am sleeping,
a chameleon runs
from the guava to the hibiscus
across the cemented path in my garden.

I wake up
from my dreamless siesta
to see its changing colours.

But by then
it would have vanished
into its own secret colours.

If ever,
in the rest of my days,
I catch sight of it
to what stone shall I freeze it?

Years

Times were good back in those days
so much that they killed all the good ones that came.

Nothing is forgotten-
neither the cane chair
nor its dirty soft cushion.

Evenings were sweet
like tea.

There weren’t much music;
but then who needed it?

It used to rain
and drench whole lives.