Bamboo

Grant me rest under your lissome stems Let me hide from the raindrops — shiny globules That drip with tropical hauteur, Rain that harms the ribs with cold rebukes. Welcome me within your greenish lair, from Your cane roots to your starry leaves —I insist on visiting In your prime, so fresh with dew and so green, like The envy in the gritty eyes of singed composts, When waving rays of the shifting sun Bathe the narrow venues formed by adjoining stems Up, up and up the stairs and dome of the jungle. I pray to shoot up with you and befriend the skies. Oh, such elevation! Fill my gourd with green wine; Make me drunk with the spewing colours of life. My heart is open to receive light —from misty dawn to Dusk crowned with your blessing. Let it rain on, I pray. My palms are spread out like your leaves — I borrow the Innocence of your frondescence. Carve me flutes from your nodes, and, from them Raise the cadences for summons, to be accompanied by Drums fashioned by hands greased by the gifts of The forests. . . . Raise the joy, the frenzy, the tone of the ceremony Raise, raise . . . upheave them To royal heights — such as yours.