Fruits

We're all Indian. There's something profoundly desi inside all of us. Something that craves the earth. That craves the turmeric-kitsch of Bollywood - that innocent rebellion against the senses, and against reality. That sips wine in fine company, but splashes into the hues of a pelvic-thrusting nautch at the provocation of happiness. That revels in the smell of a thousand spices; yellow, green and red. That blushes in the colorful flirtation of Holi.

...

I want to dress you in bangles of moonshine,
And in warm colors ground from turmeric and saffron
I shall paint your name across the crystal night sky,
Embellish your forehead with the stars
Of our forefathers.

Soon,
You and I
Shall be buried in the milky graveyard of the suns
For an eternity.
Next to each other.
And we shall cry for the world, together.