The pines are flying into wooden desires.
Some birds like hand-written letters, do not arrive.
Long ago, we were done with land,
now we go for the sky.
Our stories have claimed some fragments in a map
and only fragments belong to us;
we couldn’t belong to each other, nothing.
The saline plea of soil does not reach our eyes,
nor do we hear the mourning alphabets in the sky.
The scanty waters that flow across divided lands
have turned to channels of blood,
a poison brews in our skulls, slowly.
Naïve, I wish we would sprinkle all our claims as seeds
and a tree would erupt from each blindness,
and birds, squirrels, lizards return
with green footprints of a truer revival.
But this is what we have made of night;
this dark canopy of jagged terraces
aiming its arrow at us from the moon’s bow
while the heart like a dripping tap
wastes into dreams of temperate cottages.
Only your retreat is real,
and the looming fears of losing you to the desert in us,
you rains, who have changed your mind
passing along these wasted slopes.
Will you ever love us as before
and bring lost berries of our childhood’s fields?
You, whose whimsical fall
still saves the cherry-blossoms
from memory’s black-hole
