Sometimes I write. This is a place for such times. Honestly writing doesn't come naturally to me. Nothing does actually. What I am passionate about is doing nothing in particular, thinking nothing in particular.

But sometimes I read. And sometimes I like it too. And I like reading what I write when sometimes I manage to. Perhaps that is why i write.

Taste of Iron

I stuff my mouth with rusting iron nails
to know what the horse must be feeling.
But I felt nothing.
Perhaps I should nail my tongue with them
then only I can taste it.
But then I wont be able to taste the rain.
So I left it at that.

I sucked the coldness out of those nails
and spit them out, one by one.
Aiming at every other passerby.
They nod at me and leave with a sigh
one said “ yes, this is
one of those things life is made of”

I swallowed the last one with a gulp of breath
If life be made of these,
I need some of it in me.

Korou Khundrakpam 2009