Beckoning

Dead Leaves claimed my rebirth,

through which I was saved, but in vain.

Melody of nihilism, dragging me along

its pitfalls, a cry without a nametag, a sorrow

beyond all reveries. I saw black birds flitting

around turbid river where spontaneous combustion

of dark clouds were prophesied: “Thus, read my lips.”

How imperishable is this violence?

How impalpable, and undue: We could only

have loved like snowflakes, by the setting

of the sun, till yet another thousand winter.

Nothing rises us above what we are.

Full of melancholy and ocean, our

rueful journey into an alien shore,

2005-2-8