There is no mirror in Mirissa the sea is in the leaves the waves are in the palms old languages in the arms of the casuarina pine parampara parampara, from generation to generation The flamboyant a grandfather planted having lived through fire lifts itself over the roof unframed the house an open net where the night concentrates on a breath on a step a thing or gesture we cannot be attached to The long, the short, the difficult minutes of night where even in darkness there is no horizon without a tree just a boat's light in the leaves Last footstep before formlessness |