At a slightly slothful pace
A silent man quietly walks across the meadows
His autumn passes by mostly propped on two legs
With a mouthful of still shadow of a plough and ox.
To his own water, the Bhagirathi is a close relative.
He responds to none from his secret den.
A magpie robin whistles out of mind-
cold from the earth's last afternoon
perched on the roof of a post-mortem cell.
Thursday, January 1, 2009