Sunday, October 22, 2017

Santosh Bakaya writes


Section 8

On the vines, in tiny clusters hung luscious grapes.
Men moved around wearing weird hoods and capes. 
With predatory madness their eyes sparkled and shone.
In the wilderness there was the sound of a trombone.

The toads hopped insanely among the thick clumps.
Some croaked cacophonously, lounging on tree stumps.
Among the plump mounds of green moss dangers lurked.
For some enigmatic reason, the feisty fireflies perked.

Flitting around the bushes, gone absolutely berserk,
The fruit trees smiled, their beams piercing the murk.
One tree, as though under a pang of conscience sudden,
Was all aquiver with its heavy, and juicy burden.

The owls drifted from tree to tree, with many a hoot
In the fog, flitting about like tiny flakes of soot.
On the leaf-littered ground, crunched many a boot. 
Were the men, the quintessence of evil, about to shoot?

In the jungle suddenly echoed a full throated laugh
Followed by whispers and a shuddering cough.
A burst of flame to my right made me jump 
And from the thick clump jumped a boy plump.

Had I opted for a hysterical fugue, giving up on reality?
What tragedy had befallen me, what form of calamity?
Many questions leaped from my brain to the tongue.
With fear, to the roof of the mouth, my tongue clung.

The words stumbled over each other, blocking the exit.
My legs shivered, confused were my gumption and grit.
Suddenly the plump boy ran towards the terrified girl.
In my stomach, a ribbon of fear quickly started to unfurl.

“Whenever you look at the sky, you will remember me,”
Words of the blue eyed beauty came from behind a tree. 
“Do not kill me,” followed a blood curdling scream. 
My heart beat madly in the throes of a fear extreme. 
Image result for fog paintings
Houses at Falais in the Fog -- Claude Monet

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