Counting Your Absences
Dark night is closer, after your
Callings, callings from the half -seen trees.
Night owls are crying. A smile is
Ominous dancing in the branches.
Of slow time, night unfolds
Its ranges of stories, night’s regular acts.
All dead voices are laying ice cold.
My prolix is a wakeup call.
Night’s mysteries are awake with my poem
After a long cold sleep at Tirupati.
Foul smells hard, ghostly.
Time is decaying mundane trash.
One uncouth face conjures up,
Other unshaped faces, wild dark.
Only the hooded eyes, a simpleton
Strange sounds of howling. What a loss!
The art is moonshine.
My reason is homeless.
A few seeds have life.
My dead brother is back.
Nobody is awake at this odd hour
only a child’s unmasked hooting.
Spirits of the dead have a night out
for an appointment with the unknown.
The emperor of words, “Take care.”
No matter, how high you fly in the sky
You rain somewhere beyond a known order. Farmers
are waiting. Your water carries a bread of hope.
You paint houses with poetic colours.
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