by Gopikrishnan Kottoor
The ash and the fire,
the blood on the wind mill, the slow uprising
that now cares a damn;
all the dreams cast into the rambling rains
what was it all for? You know, perhaps
and will not tell. All the flowers in the path
that lay dying, the birds over the mountains
losing themselves before they return;
who told them the story of leaving home,
thinking they would find beauty and truth elsewhere?
Perhaps it was all wrong, the miles we traveled
into the storms
thinking we would at last hold each other there
was not to be. And now in the glass of the years
breaking,over which we tread, quietly, each alone,
not even caring to see if the other is anywhere there;
such things, that only caress the mist
between us that disappeared;
Funny, how each moment comes and goes;
everything begins and ends;
Valleys of love, how,
they turn to deserts of lust and into dust;
Well, when you laughed it all away
you felt so profound
you thought it was in your hands;
but the power, the folly and the wisdom
Time will always tell
it is all in between the legs.
Last updated June 14, 2012