beneath the tree of rain.
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,
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.