Mandolin’s secrets have no use for cover.
They burst open into reveried splinters
And flood your waking dreams.
Mandolin lures moody southern
Winds; blows them lustily in your
Courtyard. The breeze ruffles
Your hair, your sourness.
At temples, Mandolin gathers the
Holy fire of the morning sun to bathe
Your face.
When Mandolin plays, you turn
Into a snake and slither without a hiss
To a corner where the string
Charmer leads you.
Mandolin indoctrinates without
A mantra. Magicians rarely
Need one. You become a bird and
fly away with Mandolin.
More on U. Srinivas here.
Bhaswati Ghosh 