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The Restless Wind Rustles the Wheat

The restless wind rustles the wheat
today; sunshine – yesterday; sleet,
a sun that dares to show its face
for once
and deigns to filter through the branches’ lace –

A lazy tune that’s being hummed in vain
with nobody to hear it – save the grain –
a person moving slowly, lazily
for once
and taking in the ambiance and scenery –

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The Wasteland Where the Slaughterhouse Was

Overgrown with weeds, squeezed into place
between apartment blocks –
irregular in shape, a vast expanse of
emptiness and plants –
a little jungle in the middle of the city,
framed by makeshift fences
meant to keep intruders out (the reason’s not extant
since there is nothing there to be intruded on) –
unseen, kept hidden in the shadow of three high-rises
(as if they were put up on purpose
just to keep it secret –
to shield it from potential eyes of tourists
at the station),
untouched except by garbage thrown across the fence,
forgotten and dismissed from life;
a wasteland is the fate
that’s due to real estate left bare
for 15 years without a buyer –
the widow of the slaughterhouse
awaits her second spring
(but that it should occur now seems a doubtful thing)

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Green, Gold

The grass alights with stripes of green and gold
as sunlight filters through the trees,
and light and shadow divides the ground beneath
in asymmetric patterns – green, gold, green, gold –
of stripes, triangles and an occasional circle,
disappearing and re-appearing with the clouds
which thoughtlessly roll ever on above,
not giving a care to the beauty they periodically
green, gold – darkness – green, gold –
darkness. The dualism of tears and joy.

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The Sun Is Floating in a Sea of Mist

The sun is floating in a sea of mist
with two pale cloud-boats in its wake,
and all the sky irradiates as it emits
its golden light to mist and clouds alike

Then sinking in the sea of its own home
it dips its redding globe in the horizon
where silhouettes of trees, instead of foam,
await to drown what others let arise

And for a while two lonely clouds float on
lit up from underneath by fading embers
until the red fades from them too and they are gone;
only this poor rendition now remembers

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Descending Moon

Thin whirling veils of pink and gold
are intertwined across the sky and dance
in slow and graceful motion ‘round
a perfect half-sphere, cold and white and drenched
in mist that makes it wobble slightly to our eyes
as it descends through wisps of pink and gold;
the ribbons killing off its final, fading light,
to let the golden sunlight oversweep the world

Oh, whereto do you wind
behind the ribbons of the rosy mist,
the vapour veils that twist in wind
obscuring you, by moisture kissed?

When they shall fade, so shall you too;
you, misty silver half-moon cold
whose fading glow now only woo
your own scarred face, your memories of old.

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In curls and ringlets, dark
yet vividly expressed like broken brushstrokes
it bends and stretches out
across a piece of sky
that blotched in turquoise, purple, pink and orange
bids the day: “goodbye”;
this oak tree, curled as if asleep already
and yet stretched out too
as if it’s waking, stretching, yawning,
anticipating dawns that shall be coming.