Ra Sh writes

Puffing on my grief

One day,
Like a giant tree
In a silent movie
Uprooting itself from nowhere,
A Grand Grief falls on you crushing you.

You lie under it
Smothered, benumbed, cast in a spell.

It could be your Universal Grief
Or the stab of a local un-acclaimed one
Drawing its substance from histories immemorial
Or from a pin prick puncturing your carcinogenic soul.

You lie there caressing the tree
While the tree makes love to you
With rootless abandonment, orgasmic leaves,
Soggy nests and depopulated hollows.

Then, as you watch,
Lumberjacks come and slice up the tree
Into discs and wheels and palatable cones,
Transport them to distant workshops
Where lathes and carpenters turn your grief
Into tables and chairs and library shelves.

Some day, some old woman comes trudging 
Gathering firewood and fruits,
Offering a weed to you to smoke,
Calmly laying you on top of the pyre
And burning you and your grief into a puff of smoke
That curls its way to your Umbilical Grief.

As you, in a pyrotechnic display, disintegrate into
Soot, sap and sparks
 
 Woodcutter -- Kazimir Severinovich Malevich