By Lekha Murali
Beating my face, slapping my hands,
Whistling in my ears,
Rushing through the mind,
Scattering streams of thought
As I ride the pillion with my man.
The motorcycle growls, roars
Green grass blurs
Blue umbrella skies, cloud tufts, pale moon awaits
Through the tree canopies of late spring
Into the ever-changing lines of the horizon
I ride the pillion with my man,
Without a care.