When the scent of clouds on the rooftop

 
A moonless sky at half-past eleven at night—I've seen this before.
But such a dimly cloud-covered rooftop, I've never seen.
The scent of clouds everywhere, unbidden memories flooding back.
When did I last see a city this silent, this haunted? I can't recall.
I've always seen this metropolis laughing, or else crying.
Sound always exists here. Civilization cannot survive without sound.


The call to prayer comes in waves.
From nearby mosques, distant ones, the azaan drifts through the air.
Have I ever heard the azaan at half-past eleven? I don't remember.
I'm not seeking reasons. I find myself loving the sound of this call to prayer.


Some dogs are walking the streets. Today is their festival.
They're howling. No one to stop them.
Today is nature's day to revel in joy.
Human dominion is temporarily suspended.
No one knows when the next session will begin.


Many flowers have bloomed in the rooftop garden.
Even darkness has its own kind of light.
In that light you must see the trees, you must see the flowers,
you must hear the rustle of trembling leaves.
I can hear the crickets calling, along with other insects.


My house sits right beside the hills, and yet
I—of all people—had never seen the hills before!
The twelve shades of green that spread across the hillside in daylight—
tonight I'm paying the price for not seeing them, lashed by night's whip.


Right in front of me, two Christmas trees. In their leaves
clings the weariness of many nights. I never knew.
Standing there I see the paved road that runs alongside the hill,
gleaming white-bright in the night light—not quite white,
but gleaming. On the third-floor balcony of that yellow building
running northwest, a young girl leans against the railing, playing her flute...
I understand: even today, the flute still plays.


Two police cars. Slow speed. An old road. Beside it, an elderly woman. Walking.
Police don't bother the elderly. The old see less, hear less.
Therefore, they understand police less. No point in hassling them.


I wanted to write more. At times like this you must write much, because
the scent of clouds brushing against the rooftop...this is not easily found!
Mosquitoes are biting. Tonight they don't even care about the vaporizer.
They won't let me stay here. I have to go down.
I'm descending the spiral staircase from the roof.
Behind me I hear them saying...
Sir, couldn't you have done this foolishness earlier?
I don't know what to answer. I'm just going down...