i remember going back to the now bleared moment, where it burgeons in its ruinous hands. they demolished the hearth long ago and the dearth only fills the air together with the splinters of what was once yours — the wind is much tenser there, and there too is the bleak behemoth-shadow cast by the towering bell of the cathedral juxtaposed to the many a pompous mango tree enshrouding it like parasols to young, tender loam. we were akin to those moments of death, lauded by the assuage of its avid fondness — when it has died, we can hardly tell that it were stripped out of life and when it continued to live, we denied it inside us that it was no more than an ephemera enjoyed. rain obscured the dry land seeking till, and sooner than we knew, the leaves have abandoned the trees and we were underneath a shade of our own.