Once

That 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 ballad

There 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 I

This 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 II

I 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 III

The 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.