Sermons from Nowhere
As the unnamed flowers burn in the deep forest
And their crimson petals disappear into the sky,
We rear our kids at home
Wondering if they will die one afternoon
With their ears open to the summer blues.
2
To heal those mysterious wounds
We recommend a free act of crying.
As free as a cat chasing a mouse, a rustle of waves in the sea shore
And a perfect murder of a bloody mayor.
It requires just an open blue sky and a mind free from clouds.
3
Being here is always displacing something that displaces us in turn.
My look brings a change to the way boys are hitting a ball
And the way birds are lighting on the towers aslant.
Even to pause for breath is to alter the spirit of this house
And the action of the anonymous people staying here forever.
4
For those listening to the ancient sound of water
Falling on the curved mossy stones
And for those staring at a darkness causing desire and betrayal
I’m sending these neatly kept wings of a dead Indian butterfly
Though it’s disappeared from my mind in a wintry afternoon.
Amazing poetry, Sir
I’m speechless.