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