If we must speak, let it not be in vain;
they continue to defile apple-core of centuries old rectitude—
what have we come to?
I run my hand through the tangled mess of hair
every time, I switch on the television, genocide no longer
just a word,
who is responsible and why?
My lips stain like boysenberry twilight
when I think about the farmer’s protest, thousands
of innocents fighting for their rights—
thank you cabinet, you push us deep into loam,
sand of bone
and then peer in through the curtained windows
and walk on;
is this what it means to be part of the sub-continent?
I favor the bold,
cultured youth whose hands grip hard on the pen;
they excel in the art of creating a raggedy winter nest
made out of plum twigs—
can you tear your gaze away from the view?
In odd and exposed minutes of a dream there is absence of chaos;
where women folk are free to converse,
waltz after hours,
I confess, my eyes water at the very thought!
Night is a dewberry ripening around a buttery moon;
I yearn for a taste,
I yearn for a taste with no expectation of anything in return.
Photo credits: Alexander Zimin, oil on canvass, Pinterest
Lillian hosts OLN at dVerse and refers to writers as a part of a “Circle of Love.” I couldn’t agree more! Come join us! 💝
Posted for Open Link Night #283 @ dVerse Poets Pub