Brief Thread

This life, a brief thread to string moments like pearls or trinkets. With a last breath, we can count nothing as our own. Why measure now the weight of loss, gain, praise, or blame— no more than rice to be nibbled at by rats. The south wind is strong today. The departure of any love is to be expected. Still, the sudden flight of the nightingale shakes the fronds of the gooseberry tree, her green fruit bitter when ripe. Published in Setu