Last Opus
This is a difficult time
For us to paint our desires
On unstarched canvasses
For the benefit of those
Who expect masterpieces
Discoloured and faded
Are our once green forests
Where we sowed seeds of dream-poplars
Amongst wet stones and ferns
Our fingers smudged with hope
Who would believe
We have burnt our doubts in flames of maple leaves
Who would imagine
We did a waltz under falling cherry blossoms
Who on earth knows we were syllables of a haiku
But I need your small hands
To lift straws
From storm-beaten haystacks
For me
To weave our effigies
Copyright © Ibohal Kshetrimayum | Year Posted 2018
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