By Goirick Brahmachari
An empty bus circles round the afternoons at the city of summer.
No one rides, no one boards.
The heat breezes in.
Brings sand into our eyes from the desert
And dust of the ruins, over which
A new city has sprouted out;
With arid dreams and laughter
Waterless lives, ambitions
Secret fetishes of concrete lies
For us to suck up all the water of life
And to stop singing
Until it rains.