Words
Words, smothered in the folds of the self, Must be stirred awake, Made to amble and watch See if wings can bear aloft The crippled limbs And soar into the sky.
When the Moonlight Moves Into The Dark
For just a nest no aborigine Cuts away the wooded-shelter. For the simple slash-burnt crop no man of the forest Burns down the nurturing woods.
Unburdening Song
Like the East Wind You came to recount The heart-rending tales that The tear-filled Godavari told the sea.
The Other Day
Not that my coming is without intimation What needs be said always remains unsaid Not an unanticipated occurrence But yearning for the propitious in the unintended
The Bard
When the order is amiss And billowing pitch-clouds of time Strangle the throat Neither blood trickles Nor tears drop
After All You Say
For me The scene of writing, Torsioning out word-chains, From the seams of the earth, An endless movement.