The Curvature of Mystery
Bereft of leaves, the naked branch
That spreads onto our balcony
Is the curvature of mystery
Which poses the question eternally
Its flame like twigs tiny, newborn, its branches of fruits that stop the wayfarer
The cuckoos that sing in its cool shade
The little blue rags of sky caught in its leaves and keep fluttering-
Where are they! Where did they go!
Now of course it is a naked branch,
At its end a kite, like a tail of sankranthi
That vanished into time like evaporating tear invisible-
If I show you one visible posture
I know you people devour the entire invisible world of my thoughts and feelings
I know – that is why –I say it is naked but in that branch
Time is flowing like electric current in the copper wire.