Stone, collector of silences stone,

His silence in the middle of stones splits the stones.

Tone atoning tones, streaming tones in streaming tongues

His silence so unfamiliar grows musical.


 What is song when birds of the intellect

Are tossed to scrap iron-nets?


 His gaze going past the hangman’s noose

Colours dancing into colours into forms

Into multi-coloured cruelties

Congealing  the air.


 His gaze alone with his human face

His glory alone with the disintegrating gloom

His name alone reassembling rank melodies

Of heavens that elude time.




 We return with stumbling feet

To the windswept leaves,

Shrouds of siege govern the fragile leaves,

Shivers grip the slow songs of the leaves.


 Among nights of the generous disfigured sea

The stream sleeps in waves

Distrusting tears of the despoiled-

Our disasters unsleeping, our disasters we reap each day


 Darkening flames fading into rains

Of acid in the wood’s homestead.


 Golden twilights, naked stars, merry brutalities

Tease the oranges:


 What’s the fate

Of you seeds of juice?




 In the shrinking green, reality and tragedy seed.

In the belly of waters, the water’s dirge:


 Earth, I’m your waterbed


 I cure no cold


 Since you’ve perfumed seas in toxic tons.

When you swim your bald Eden, you’ll theorize:


 “It’s a modern world , no Eden subsists

Eden is lost polyphony, modernity is bird-less skies…”


 When you sink in the Truth

You’ll shake heads, mouthing rhetoric:


  “Can water flowers plot so much rot?

Can the flower blotted plead for us?

Sublime and barren, what tree will trust us:

To report its greenness gladly?”


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SENTINEL POETRY #29, Online Magazine Monthly,  April 2005, ISSN 1479-425X