Night bulletins are rife with Rafale and Sabarimala
As bare-chested devotees keep the pot churning.
Here the cold is dense, heavy, as a chowkidar adds twigs
and dry bark to keep chaff fires burning.
Hope and light, small-time thieves in the fog,
cling stealthily to something close to yearning.
And through a hole in the mist, suddenly
a barbet calls, ‘the year is turning’.