Poetry

Under the jacaranda tree,
near the fragrant trunk,
lies a sheet of blue trumpet―
shaped flowers.

You are home, near
the lotus feet of marbled
Buddha, standing erect.

You are walling in
Agni's wrath, with wild thoughts.
The somatization becomes very unkind.

It foretells the reality.
Curves take you to lakes. You read more
of the depth of water.

What was the avant-garde
of new age, against
the tight lips of crusade?