OnceThat which once withers may hardly ever bloom. Flowers, words or love wings, dreams or memories when they escape from life will never ever return. This is the occasion to tend and care, sitting together singing this very moment challenging death buying time. Once shriveled charred and destroyed there will be time only to repent. That which once withers may hardly ever bloom.
The last balladThere is always some hope - in the heat of summer when everything dries up a bit of dampness remains in a puddle. Under a heavy rock lurk swarms of insects. The swollen Chandrabhaga swallows up everything - houses, cattle fields and gardens - remains a thatched roof entangled in a tree, a little girl clinging. After the cruel silence of rejection remains a word, unheard echoing. There is always some hope.
The hand IThis joy too will be unbearable like the entire world shrinking into a flower clasped in a palm or, a straw flying in the sky - a nest's dream. In the dark, a hand grasping another, refusing hesitating, then releasing, a well-lit place, dazzling till it disappears, one day this joy too will be unbearable.
The Hand III will keep everything as before - books on the table, a little water in the glass for quenching thirst after a while, my hand pressing the right ankle, in pain. In the autumn sky a half-moon, on the tree of darkness like fruits and flowers a few fireflies and a few stars in the brightness of my fathomable silence a few gloomy words. Basking in the hesitant touch of your hand I will keep in my world everything as before except wherever I placed the hand will define the boundaries of your warmth.
The hand IIIThe mellow sunshine of her hands the faltering darkness of her hands her hads like flowers dew-soaked, serene her hands like birds restless to take flight her hands all alone drowned in a dream her hads awaiting a pair of hands.