When the artist dropped his palette,
I gathered his mixed-up colours ..
No form nor meaning,
the colours drench my mind
In joyful sorrow…
The raindrop finds a home in earth’s womb
and grows and blossoms..
I am learning from her-I await the raindrop,
hasn’t it always been mine?
I am not subject to the sculptor’s tool- chiselled and carved;
I am the ridge in the river’s soul, living and eternal.
When the moon rises today, keep a song for me , on the clouds…
Perhaps my soul would reach it, across the breeze of day.