The camera stories

We  flow here with  finger music from the end of the hall
In the shadows of  some potted plants on a window glass
As faces puff up with  sound and fingers dance on drums
And new lives are made and bound together in a silk cloth,
With yellow rice on heads and red glow on a bride of saree.

The camera  sleeps in the bag, in deep-rooted skepticism
About plucking stories  from a hall of  men in plastic chairs
Only to weave them into a black night against a fan's whir .

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