The Grass

Sun chooses one
and moves on to the next.
We stay, the pebbles in the garden.
Someone, although no one wants,
has to go home. I say, “Staying
becomes prosaic if we don’t leave.”
No one desires the cold watmth
of his house. Sun favours the last cairn.

Light slides, declines
from the phallus symbol
of a multi-housings’ edifice.
Do not our mothers call?
The leaves of the evening
dance, recline. The fall
of waking wins and destroys
our eyes.  We lie, stoned, 

the children lost in the wild adulthood.

Kushal Poddar
Picture Nick Victor