When death rides a horse, there is silence

or at least there should be, but when the horse's

oblique legs were clumsily splayed on the tarmac,

Lips were frothing with gossip.

Maybe,

at the moment, when the saddle slid off and the master slipped off,

Some gone winds of the steppes of yore were in its face.

Maybe,

the traffic hymns were split rivulets falling with a jungle chatter,

the Mumbai smoke felt somewhat like the Bombay mist,

the in-the-name-of-god whiskbrooms- inviting mare tails swooshing.

but in these vistas of reminiscence, and ignorance, something hit;

the highway portrait completed.

If          if            if it had lived a moment longer, it could have kicked the sun a few inches off

But it lay there,
dead as a dead horse,

Naked

and appearing to fly

for someone watching from

the sky.

~Ajay
31/10/18