Tuesday, April 3, 2012


Someone who wears
Flowers in her hair
Counts the seasons
By the arrival of the blossoms
She makes do with marigold
Before the jasmine reappears
With its heady scent
The single rose is enough
For the morning rush hour
Those blooming at home
On the creeper-turned climber
And in the pot, smell the best
Because they have been strung
By mother's loving hands
I've often wondered
How it must be
To sport the crescent
On the crest
Keep a river
Coiled in the tuft
Drape a serpent
Around the neck
For inside my head
There is an ever-glowing moon
That never lets me sleep
A river that chatters forever
And a serpent that refuses to die.

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