We would reach the edge of lake
A lake dug for love for a princess
Overnight by moony royal orders.
It was myth with cock’s early call
Before a night ended, so princess
Could not wed impossible digger.
It is same moon that had fallen,
One who had watched helplessly
A lover turning stone from love.
The lake beat the moon on wind.
Pale moon splintered on ripples
Riding slowly on lake’s old myth.
The moon was once in this lake
When it watched wind grow love .
Myth watched lake’s moon grow.
(Watching the beautiful Nakki lake in Mount Abu ,nestled in the rocks of Aravali mountains)
A rich green bramble rises alongside
Royal cenotaphs into competing sky,
Not that high but what a wind allows.
Wind controls mills in sky and below.
The bramble thinks it controls a wind
Over royal dead under the cenotaphs.
The royal dead do not think anything.
They may like to say off with the bush.
Excuse me ,we are short of iambs
At feet, lost to vast empty spaces.
Nearer a home our Frost’s scythe
Mows spiked grass in wood frame.
Dames with grass on their heads
Rise all the way to the hill’s grass
As if hill is continuation of dame.
The scythe lies snug in the dame.
We love the sun in the mountains.
We pray to him below moustache.
We get copper coins on our skins,
Emblems that are his tiny tattoos.
His morning’s light is soft delight.
His mountain gold is poet’s love.
Adult one gets somewhat rough.
We pray to him to turn old soon
And die quickly in the mountains,
So he is born and remains a baby.
We can pelt no stones at mangoes now
But can eat stones off their sweet pulp.
Our eaten stones sprout tender leaves
From a stinking garbage, home to pigs.
They will grow big and host the cuckoo
As the branches rub each other in love.