The trail of it’s wonder walks around
Like a smoldering path in a lingering dawn
Away it walks from the birth of itself
In dreams and wings we see her fly
Like a spear passing through a heart
Unknown the pain is felt in sighs
Some comic relief is needed with jest
A book is taken as a break from the cries
If only so small an onion could kill
If only so big a potato could chill
If only so light a mint could fly
If only so cool the cucumber sighed
In blood of one we stir another
In wonder of some we graze their friends
In senses we feel or see or lust
For in death of them we gaze our taste
Slices and
Paste and
Grated daze
and Churned
in mime
To fry
To Stir
To saute
To burn
To roast
To mix
To find its turn
Amongst the lost ways of greens we lie
Amongst the aromas of tangy winds of spices
Amongst the thick gravy we seek
Amongst the mixed spices we cry
Of what could be an ensemble of Biryani
Of what could be the mixed palak Sabzi
Of what could be a soup that stirs
Of what could be some chunks of everything that hurts
It is time to walk back
To stop adoring
To be oneself in heavens delight
To the place of birth
The birth of food
It is time to walk back
To the king the rules
Without it we are but just puppets of lore
Without it we are but just jesters alone
Without it we just be zombies yo
Without it we could not be this grown
It passes again from another ones heaven
And lures us on as if like a woman
The one who seeks the love of respect
The one who sees the love in jest !