An uneasy silence
inches forward, with advancing claws,
towards the afternoons, mornings and nights,
The music is withdrawing the season of flowers
from the breast of the long hours.
Familiar streets had become
bouncing spring paths,
they will turn familiar again,
who knows,
The heat will burn the back and
friendly voices will not be able to give a shade.
These deaths are familiar
but dying is a new pain,
The darkness that it brings will last till next rains,
or next summer
when again the eyes will look into the pit of the long day
and would see from a distance
and mumble,
one day the whole unfolding again and again,
will end,
and with it, the births and the deaths.
Till the days linger
and drag around incomprehensible truths
and unwinding webs of events
slow and exhausting,
Go and sit by the water hole,
and look at the reflection of the floating clouds
and hear the meaningless yet engaging cacophony
of birds.
