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We were going from our village to another village .At the end of village and a new village beginning a wedding would take place .There would be edge-of-the-bed awkwardness and a love newly springing. There would be jasmines smelling of the night.There would be milk glasses by the bed.

Here ,in our bullock cart we were deeply afraid of ghosts held by the night. The bullocks were afraid too and they had no mom’s laps to be afraid in. So they were afraid in their bellies and only a periodic shake of their heads with their clank of bells would scare away ghosts.

Ghosts might be afraid in their ghostly bellies .They had no feet at the bottom end to run away ,only tapering ends. Fear resides in their philosophical bellies .Ghosts have no mom bellies to be afraid in.

The banyan spreads dark hair on the muddy river and its red fruits are dropping on it like rain drops. Come to its folds to experience our sleep and death in an extorting sleep, the interest for our light’s capital.

The fruits mark time for periodic interest payments and interest shall cease only on the final redemption. In the meantime we sleep off our interest payments and each time ,hope that interest is not redemption.

(Schopenhaur’s famous financial metaphor in which he calls sleep little interest payments for the capital of life we had borrowed at birth that will cease only on death,the final redemption)

The yellow leaf is not an autumn leaf before falling to the camera frame. When inside the frame it will not fall off like the painted leaf of O’Henry last.

The gold of it rises from pure sunrise of the balcony’s shadows yet to form, birds forming to wake sleeping house. And when they do they are vague vain v’s painted in the gold of a dawn’s new-sky.

Just juxtapose yellow leaf with paper,the paper of a pink flower trembling as in deep awe before a passing breeze. You now have this pink plus yellow frame in slightly inebriated morning sky without its native hues of resolution.

The hierophant owl responds to fevered flutters of lady tongues inviting it to our sons wedding to their daughters .Big and round eyes will watch us all night long. It brings a goddess of wealth on its owl back .

Owl interprets our happiness all through the night. We abide by its wisdom about our happiness and its interpretation of our happiness. Our lady tongues flutter to invite it to come whenever we are in doubt.

Poet says a hierophant owl sits in a fixed wood shelf ,not a gnarled tree wood, which is subject of his interpretation . On our part, we abide by the owl’s wisdom and its interpretation of our happiness .

We spoke all our recent dialogues nicely voicing apprehensions of the big change. Our struggle had continued underneath. It was a monotone speech in a gray sky when the line of trees came to a freeze in their hostility, where they stood tall.

The gentle summer breeze did not matter. The trees sniffed autumn and looked away.  Emaciated street dogs barked incessantly, at hooded strangers coming at us from hills from the edge of the sky, in clouds of dust.

Our dialogues went on in our dark robes as our culture bristled riskily in our back, the culture of our reality, our failed hearts where several realities came up together not as a single earth-reality in silk thread but a failed reality of a fluid mind-state ,a sky of treeless vapor, a sea of flake-salt.

In the plagued beautiful city where I lived you would celebrate death by eating crunchy noontime snacks at the crematorium. In the non-plagued city I lived you would drink to ongoing death, in a nightly celebration over drum beat and country.

But in the other city I lived ,you would celebrate death by actually dying. A moneyed death gas would generously put sleeping street people to never ending sleep .

We also celebrated in that city our own personal death , where a mom would turn ice and later a mango tree .We have since come away to another city while she is still there presiding over local wind and rain .Here in Sultan tomb city we await our celebration.