Kittu’s sanity is tricking him
and he is dreading its retreat.
On this blazing afternoon, struggling to catch a hold,
he decides to walk towards the forest.
He questions himself; how much do I need to survive?
Outside the forest, he can very easily dissolve himself in his actions and his bearings to eat everything that fits inside the circumference of his hands.
Five moderately sized chickens – bucket full of fish – thirty oranges – plates full of rice for the feast of the champions and leftovers for the one’s starving.
Filling himself to avoid feeling scarce.
Walking ahead, he removes his hat.
Leaving it to rest under a tree, feeling the need to disperse the heat from his head.
Suddenly,
girls turn into trees,
chameleons burst in an attempt to copy the radiant hues and
the nightingale starts barking raucously.
Kittu has a liking for the moon.
But how can he risk waiting for the dusk?
His body is formed by culture,
As much as by nature.
The soil erodes when the trees are cleared and so does hunger when nurturing of the
scarcity inside the belly starts to leave behind a foul smell.
The smell similar to when a pigeon died on his terrace
and he wanted to die with him.
There is no funeral for ordinary deaths.
So much gets destroyed in the forest every day,
and much more can come alive with self – sown seeds.
