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.