The Poet


He stands

beneath the tree of rain.

He overhears

Hungry crackles of the rain leaves.

Rain beats down

on the poet’s empty head,

into his vacant eyes,

and his stretched out hands.

The rain,blood-red rain,

Growing dark,

Beats down endlessly on the poet’s life,

And on his poems,

he bears the darts of rain

on his back,his trunk, and the head.

He breaks down, rises to his feet, and collapses again.

He strikes the root in the ravaged land

Like the stunted clay holding a tree,

clutching on a tender sprout

deep inside core of his self.


*Vasant dahake


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