Tuesday, April 11, 2017

P C K Prem writes


East wind brings
multilayered red-yellow rays, 
as I stretch out in the bed languidly 
with a long yawn  
wide as if devouring time and space.

Not willing to get up 
I am fixed on earth  
a pole before the mirror, I am 
and discolored reflections look ghosts 
distorted faces, trees and flowers 
awaken and I get baffled.

Little trees of apricot 
pomegranate, peach, walnut 
guava, lemon and orange 
melt into sounds, 
and it is fresh with sonorous tunes 
but I fail to understand, 
perhaps I don’t wish to enjoy.

I recall years spent 
in routine lethargy when I felt  
captivated by plants gray and sad, 
withered years back  
treasuring pensive echoes; 
of water burnt in utter thirst.

It was a mutual knob of love, 
ineffectual vowels scratching tongues  
of plants that did not follow sighs, 
but felt spongy waft mournful touches  
with sadly melodic sounds in solitude, 
instigating to learn art of love.

I get up in the morning 
these voices call tenderly 
so mild whispers I hear.


I am aware of steps as plants dance 
hear voiceless murmurs  
as breeze alerts each leaf and flower, 
on the onset of dry autumn  
and chilly miasma.

It appears bright to greet 
with smiles I go around 
to hum a tune and all listen.

I presume for sheer fun 
perhaps it is a myth 
that plants follow I imagine, 
and as a habit I can’t sleep 
even as sun rays touch crumpled bed. 
Plants knock at the windows 
with little pieces of soft smiles 
fill the entire space 
with mystic perfumes, 
and begin to say prayers 
for my long life, I doubt.

Out of the garden they gather 
with the morning sun 
lustre and freshness 
and tell, God is here  
waiting for a gazette notification.
 Image result for dawn paintings
 Dawn Yellow Sun -- Roos Schuring

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