the only sounds, the sloshing of our jungle boots
and a cricket symphony
the air affluent with the odor of the paddies
oxen dung, rice-rich stagnant water
a lone golden cloud I see has two lives--one in the western sky;
another on the water’s face
and it suffers two fates, in unison, as light fades, while sky
births crimson before it morphs to black
in its silent death throes, I see the cloud melt from the heavens
but on the water its departure is less graceful
blurred, convulsive from our mad marching, our soles slaughtering
a would be perfect reflection of firmament
Nov 3, 2016
Nov 3, 2016 at 6:50 PM UTC
the only sounds, the sloshing of our jungle boots
and a cricket symphony
the air affluent with the odor of the paddies
oxen dung, rice-rich stagnant water
a lone golden cloud I see has two lives--one in the western sky;
another on the water’s face
and it suffers two fates, in unison, as light fades, while sky
births crimson before it morphs to black
in its silent death throes, I see the cloud melt from the heavens
but on the water its departure is less graceful
blurred, convulsive from our mad marching, our soles slaughtering
a would be perfect reflection of firmament
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