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.