The smoke hazes the setting sun
as the fire burns remains of the last crop
proffering ashes to the wind.

It's all the wind gets
as the memento of the last harvest.

On the new soil
once again there'll be tilling
and God willing
seeds waiting hope laden
will sprout into corn.

What's dead is to be reborn.

I feel the tinge of pain again.
No ,It  isnt the wounds that hurt ,
But everything else-
The look of sarcasm,                                                                              
The look of disgust,
The silence of loneliness,
The winds of abandonment,
The occasional  frown,
The nameless torture,
The unwanted shameful fame,
The experience of impaired humanity……

As I feel the rope tightening round my neck,
I enjoy the painful bliss;
I pass into the unknown-
Nameless .
Weak.
Stripped of respect ,
Of dignity,
Of all things human.