In the summer,
when my ears rang too much
with the footsteps, those small scooped
green colored rice of the household–I looked away–
they asked me
why do you run off?

I thought of Eliot’s flowers
and the undissolved in my chest,
those whimpers that came out softly,
like a baby cooing
against the fuss of all awake world

I took it to a rivulet,
there, in the moving shadows deep
with the fish-tint of the glistening blue,
no one asked me why
no one asked me who
and I dreamt of lands beyond death
and the final sleep.

I did come back (though)
(though) with deep peace,
knowing what little I hold
knowing how little I can keep
no rice, no flowers
only few hours.


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