Yehuda Amichai

Last morning walk on Link Road of 2017. Hugged a Mumbai chill sitting on a green, wooden bench under a banyan. A Sunday quiet. Newspaper vendor was selling news to an absent audience. Read and mused over Yehuda Amichai, the Israeli poet. Am aware of Moses. Trying to be familiar with Yehuda Amichai in poem, The place where we are right.

From the place where
we are right
Flowers will never grow
in the spring.
The place where we are
right
Is hard and trampled
like a yard.
But doubts and loves
dig up the world
Like a mole, a plow.
And a whisper will be
heard in the place
where the ruined
house once stood.

Wondered whether me will even spot a whisper, beloved country. Am into Amichai. For a Sunday, there was no work at the metro. Machinery and workers lay exhausted, asleep, at work spots. Everything looks same. At the Vazira temple, Rama prayed, me did not. At Jayaraj Nagar, the Saphale women of vegetables, were absent. Yes, the morning had an absence. Came home, fed sparrows, sank into me sofa, read Yehuda again. Was not sure whether me walked the morning; unsure what me was doing. Scribbled a notebook: 

2018,
looks, reads,
1820, 8120, 0182;
got to check me eyes.
Peeling potatos
will remain the same.