THE CURVATURE OF MYSTERY

Bereft of leaves, the naked branch

That spreads onto our balcony

Is the curvature of mystery

Which poses the question eternally

Its flame like twigs tiny, newborn, its branches of fruits that stop the
wayfarer

The cuckoos that sing in its cool shade

The little blue rags of sky caught in its leaves and keep fluttering-

Where are they! Where did they go!

Now of course it is a naked branch,

At its end a kite like a tail of sankranthi

That vanished into time like evaporating tear invisible-

If I show you one visible posture

I know you people devour the entire invisible world of my thoughts and
feelings

I know-that is why-I say it is naked but in that branch

Time is flowing like electric current in the copper wire-

~Seshendra Sharma~

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