The Water Buffalo

The reflections dab the sky
across the swamp, erect
the hills, perfect the perspectives,
birth a water buffalo, lone and thick.

This fresco waits framed in the pane
of the guest house. Our heads
toss on the pillows. We sleep. We cannot.
We do not see the beast.
A gust of wind, cool streamed downhill,
stirs everything. Had we seen this 
we would have never rely on the narrative.
The reflections sparks the stars,
dreams a doctored desire.
We see. We do not. 




Kushal Poddar


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