Away from the mundane groans of the day,
stereotyped chatter and blasé outpourings,
Life beats around them,
as would a moth ticking
round the wall clock; its emptiness
has a hollow echo of the shapeless wild.
A whitened leaf on a bleary branch.
On a wintry evening when I scan the sky,
the pale milky bough fills the eye.
The hair on my arm bristles up to
see the prankish slow wink of rare stars.
A burgeoning cosmic radiance
spreads its munificence across the sky bed.
A permanent glow in the womb
of the dark to unfasten mind
from its traps.
My mother, her bones giving way,
ever looked up to the sky for the final bliss.
I hearken to her last battle-worn days
awaiting the faint call of the last dirge.
Always let my mind take its solace.