Winter Poem by KATOCH P C K PREM

WINTER
Wintry attitude of identities
in silken robes is untainted
not illumined at the end.

Life is an island
ill designed and black,
rocks, trees not desires
difficult to agree with Gibran
and silence slips in times changed
and a man stands mute and tainted.
Wingless earth feels traumatized
sky without pegs to hang on
raises questions.

While yoga in luxury saloons
seems a waste
as Shiva is bemused at orchestra,
and yogis with blinkers on
spin labored words
that seldom afford comforts.
Nature thirsty goes up
and oceans in fury cascade,
dry grassland with plethora
of acidic shrubs
picks up punctured leaves and blades,
and tiny faded twigs and scrubs
dumped in tadpoles,
an ugly desecration it is,
but thirst does not give pain.
And back I sit in the courtyard
village is lost, still busy, it chatters
it sings, it talks of politics
that noshes nothingness.
I walk along indistinct images
in white veil,
on a long march for a funeral hymn,
in searing voices and split heads,
as joys on crossroads go stale,
while muddy Ganges looks on.
Widening sky defies limits
and ocean extending to hinterlands
creates confusion.

It is dark as weary cows enter
and look out for an aged woman,
lifting a bucket.

Cows' eyes brighten up
but I sit with a vacant head,
as imaginings erode, and grope
for answers,
to riddles of invasive famine.