Cliff tops
There are dreams in
feet
only just fit into shoes to walk;
dragons with open beaks
circumambulate the ruby crystal
skies, his innocent
eyes have seen
deeper shades of rivers flow out
of islands, his mouth
has eaten
splinters of a wall that weeps
tearless screams;
they brought dreams
of peaceful colours,
the same colour of the
cloth
placed over his father his mother
called the fabric of
heaven;
they brought food
shelter to the naked
space
of fields still ingesting drought
in their hubris
mouths;
they brought tents,
they brought music of bonfires,
they brought books and pens,
but they never stayed
longer;
his mother said angels
had to look
after the whole world,
like his father who was
now looking
after someone else, most of all,
to him, the dragons
brought hope
of glimpsing his father fly over cliffs
to neighbours across
the sky
that his mother called: the realm
of the lesser
protected.

Kotri
Bridge
the soil is grey here
as the stones sit over it
tall, boulder-like, smooth
lustres of
black
my father looks at them
quickly slipping into reverie
of his days of owning
a land of
depressing
beauty such as this
the water runs in
gushes
so white, contrasting sharply
with his beard, the white of
which turned sour
but Ive been
writing these
lines in a hundred ways
already, I cant revive them
to the feeling first surged
upon seeing the grey of
my
fathers dreaming turn
the dusty brown like they were
the eyes of youth

Paper
Windmill
certain days dont
go back
to the four folds, but hang
around the contours, set in
from turning halves
into reparable halves
the air has been
propped
on a stalk of bamboo
and the breathing is done
through a
straw of hay
from a scarecrows hat
Ive been wearing
that hat
over my face, letting the air
assuage the sound of faint
music floating on a bears
back pawing on the crops
the evening looks
ransacked
by a bundle of stars inflamed
from being stalked out of holes
while the paper moves in four
angles four points of
direction