"Illusional Clowns’ Mystique Mirror"
Performers, we have come, opening the forest.
Clowns, we have lost, truly, to children
Who infuse life, into the music, in the moistness of the roots of the trees.
We begin, in the rehearsal space, to parody, the politics of surveillance,
Foolish leaders, stories of war
The extreme pain, in the paths, everywhere, of modern history.
We are, mother, to the audience.
Sisters, carers, blow and blow, ancient songs, of prayer, to ignite dying embers,
Bringing forth language of clowns, that set up our world, spectacular.
For the bird-raced actors, directions are wings.
Let the music, of the clowns, melt the weapons, that surround angels, country after country.
We bring wet stickiness masks
That peel faces, made of paper and stained clothes.
We have come to act, with a thin slice of light
To give new meaning to darkness.
Our angel, wanders, collecting paper from rubbish
Spreading her hair, all over.
Our journey, is a search
For the Korraththi (gypsy woman), with the colour of dust, smell of mud
PalaniRamesh, India