Jun 25, 2015



The rains are words,
but they don't speak;
they fall
like the dust, like ash,
like blossoms of fire,
like the breath withheld long.
The suddenness, frightening,
the lightning;
they are words
not meant to be heard.

Rains rush
into the empty swamps,
forlorn homes,
sweep away the wings of birds in the nests.

Rains fall
on herds of cows,
in the green meadows where the cows cannot reach,
on the mountain ranges,
everywhere the rains fall like words,
ruminations of thoughts,
rudimentary like the first stroke of a brush
on a canvas that does not speak.

words and the paint,
the paper and ink,
and the brush and the paint,
in a combat for ascendency,
for capturing the Zen.
In exhaustion,
the words freeze;
the paint waits
impatiently;
the canvas cracks like a barren land.

Nothing speaks in the land where the rains fall
like words,
like the dust of ashes and sand.
SUSHAMA KARNIK (C)
June 25, 2015

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