An emerald shield to protect you,
But there’s a change in your violence,
As you devour the cask,
Drunk on metamorphosis,
You believed that beauty begets beauty,
But your wings appear dull on the surface,
Hiding all their color beneath,
So when you flutter and fly,
Through each stem you deflower,
Do you feel like God watches with an approving smile?

Drink the nectar until the wells are dry,
But even intoxicated by the mead,
You can’t hide,
Your days are numbered,
And my pushpins are sharpened
To capture a butterfly.

In the calmness of the morning light,
When the sun shines and darkness exit.
Birds chirping through the trees,
A gentle hum, carried by the winds.

A lonely bird begins its song,
Notes that pop, sweet and strong,
Awakens this sleepy earth,
Giving life an amazing birth.

Each dewdrop on the petal's edge,
A tale unsaid upon this ledge,
Of night's comfort and suns first kiss,
In moments pure, we find our bliss.

The world awakes gently, starting its day,
Colours blend in a perfect sway,
From amber gold to azure, blue,
Nature beautifully painted as new.

The fading beauty with essence,
In every flower and in every face,
Time unfolds its tender tune,
Moments like these are divine.

When sun sets, doze for night,
In the twinkling stars so bright,
Let us pause, and deeply see,
What gives us hope to be.

By
Sanji-Paul Arvind

Through ages, the carbon released by the pained,
From countless sorrowful, pale, and weary souls,
A deep, long sigh that eventually rolls...
From it, carbon refined, slowly, by and by,
Gathered and set, beneath the sky...
Forming these lines of lemon trees, standing tall.
Beyond a tree's might, its very all,
A tree of poignant sorrow, a vibrant grove of ache,
A mystical plant... Rupananda's wake...
Rupasanatan's grace...
Behind each leaf, in the spaces unseen,
Fruit ripens, a clustered, fiery, hidden sheen...
Explosions of passion, in rainbow's bright hue,
With a mesmerizing beat, they push, bursting through,
Reddish lemons born anew.
I sit in faded scent, by the sorrow-tree's shade,
In the afternoon's quiet, a sacred glade.
Before me, a lemon, its halves unfurled.
Inside, seeds of pure pain, a sorrowful world,
Dense cells of anguish, I know, nothing more.
A blood-shot gaze from eyes, tears brimmed to the core,
A whipping glance, a questioning stare.
Among these seeds, which one, I wonder where,
Was born from the carbon of my mournful, fruitless sigh?
It whirls into illusion's realm, as years drift by...
Slowly, persistently, a long, quiet flight...

the rotting process                  
proof of life  dampens the air
with pine-like fragrance
transfusional breath confirms
      i'm one with the earth