That is when a victory music comes in waves
From boxes, in parallel and standing towers
Their faces black and square and facing trees
And clouds in sedation with solar necklaces
On chests, breathing out rings of winter steam.
That is when a river shivers on its silken sands
On a cold morning under a train on the bridge
With tiny ants of people crawling on its wet bed
Around sand craters, along with toy buffaloes.
That is when cloaked people huddle around fires
Fed on twigs and old tires burning in acrid smoke,
When shadows from sun are pinioned on the wall
And palms emerge from cloaks for re-assurance.