Alphabets Poem by Sharmila Ray

Alphabets march to enter my heart
but an ancient wind stops them,
They get lost.
They die
without forming a word.
However, in the evening they return
with kites
with birds.
Colored alphabets
sitting arrogantly on my desk
deriding me.
Alphabets, mist of my armpits.
Alphabets, the cotton stretched
over my breasts.
Alphabets, the invisible horizon.

I'm swept.

In the sense-space of my thought
alphabets grow again on their own
as do the ferns,
much like the nails on your fingers.
Alphabets, word-forest.
Each tree a word
and if we do loose ourselves
in the forest
it is exactly then that we
find our voice.