Where the river runs dry,
barefoot children chase
warped rubber tires,
and wild dogs with wire collars
bury fish bones in the earth.
Â
Where the river runs dry,
memories of water burn
like the imprint of a naked body
on crumpled bedsheets:
the curve of her back
the arches of her feet.
Â
Where the river runs dry,
concrete chimneys stand
on the graves of minarets,
spitting plumes of smoke
that swallow a ceiling of blue sky.
Â
The river runs dry
somewhere in the Thar desert,
but still flows through the mantras
uttered by bony priests and
echoed by wounded lovers –
“Sarasvati, Sarasvati, Sarasvati…â€
