Grow Fingers.

And I grow fingers and thumbs to write more The verses that do not follow straight lines But zigzagging under the open skies In chromed yellow sunlight In canopy of the trees Of the emerald green. Deserts there are, heat exhausted creatures Which demand to know the arrival of dawn Within the hot sandy dunes loneliness resides Seized in sounds of silences the wind sighing. Winters I have seen , in interiors of people Where motions are frozen in frigid bonds And down pours from dark clouds echoes The deaths of the moths on the frozen ponds. Today I speak from depths of the being From slits in roofs , from broken charades From blood soaked minds under the bullets metallic Or women singing their songs in mud soaked paddies. Run with syrup on my parched lips Or disappear in the immensity of the seas Rain forested creatures wormed of nights In wakeful of the myths for mutterings in dawn. Durlabh Singh.