Purana Qila

Now that the smell of the Afternoon sun 

has soaked into the freshly mowed grass

             The burden of a borrowed cigarette 

Rests heavy on my tongue.

I wish I could turn into the tree

sprawled under yellow flowers

but instead I press upon 

a lawn not made for guests. 

The faces around me wonder 

if the faces would've been different...

                      Maybe the rain would've rained

more gracefully? 

Butterflies may be new Emperors of this fort

                but it seems that, perhaps, 

                                  the birds have always been the bards.

 So...who are we?

We are tourists, trying,
                                                                    and failing, 

                           to find a home in the sky.