the slow art of breathing bitter

This World's not How It Seems

Dark sky, damp green;

A bird flies, happy and sheen.

I stand afar in the mustard fields

This world's not how it seems.

Mist wraps around the deodars

Yet one has to fight the war.

The bitter walls of this town

Turn the birdsong down.

Red, purple, grey, yellow

Crowd the narrow paths, shallow.

The glass window clogs the scent

Of lavender hanging down the apartment.

I walk along; a dog walking behind.

Look at its grey eyes, someone reminds.

Up and down, right and left—

We run, we sing, we cry, we praise.

And one day, all the stars that spark

Will smile one last time and explode, and fade into the dark.

How many stars we see each day,

God forbid! Who remembers them?

Busy bees lighten the blue,

Smoky lights darken the green hue.

I lie down, the blue sky, green deodars, mustard fields—

I smiled, this world's not how it seems.