Indian Summer

Under the sweltering sun we

Simmer in the steam of our own

Sweat

Popping purr of auto-rickshaw engines like

            Giant mechanical cats pawing and clawing

    Their way over each other through the streets

 

Sputtering exhaust pipes spitting smoke

 

Shrill shriek of horns like sharp spears that

            Skewer you side by side

 

Crackling cranking of creaking carts pushed past

Street-stall salesmen snapping startling shouts to sell

            Scents of sandalwood or

                        Smart sandals or

                                    Piles of senselessness for two cents

 

Under the sweltering sun we

Simmer in the streams of our own sweat and I’ll

Never step into a fire for

I’ve been through

the bazaars of Delhi

 

BY: Tomás Quiñonez-Riegos