Monday, October 28, 2013


(Again an old one)

She said, the meridian of zero,
Where there is no east and west
But mist and snow,
That looked like the grey beard of Santa Clause,
The invisible straightline
That linked us; like two poles that never meet
The geography of the null, vacuum,
Where temperature is never marked
In the narrow line of mercury
The pressure always evades
The throbbing heart of barometer.
She said once she had seen a red, red star
Over the sullen skies of Greenwich.
Someone called it a bad omen,
While the others hailed it the divine birth,
The birth of the son of God.
Then, an old carpenter was
Busy giving the finishing touch to a cradle.
All of a sudden it started to downpour
And Greenwich became a valley of flowers.
A little girl plucked all those blossoms
And traced the red star to a deserted barn.
Greenwich was the backbone of our time.
Had there been no Greenwich
Our time would have been static and stagnant,
Said our geography teacher.
No sun rays to greet you good morning
No golden sky to bid you farewell.
No snow, no rain
Change of seasons forgotten to come.
Our dreams of eternity and spring
All you see is blossoms and birds.
Once I thought of flying to Greenwich,
Dreamt of playing in the snow
"No," she said, "don't go there,
It's the end of our dream,
The last spot of green."
So we went to the womb of the bed
And slept there like two embryos
Dreaming of our rebirth in Greenwich;
Greenwich —
The last of our dream
The spectrum that peeps through mist.

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