From the Cherry Blossoms

Not asking, was most difficult, from the magma, to send a hot spring. It was a classical translation of the pain in winter of human spell, in a temple festival. The space widens between us, between our thighs and absences, while studing the red roof of the landscape, where blood had dripped from the cherry blossoms. I say to mother earth, where the border begins between your breasts and foeticide. Warriors were becoming monks or priests were learning the art to kill. This road is not going anywhere. The interval between matter and time links to movement of grief. The ahead is tomorrow under siege. Sun is refusing to melt the snow on mountains. SATISH VERMA