Poetry

It was the interplay 
between shadow and moon. 
An encephalopathy 
in ring of fire? 
 
The blast was the tipping 
point of your identity. Now 
you don’t recognize yourself 
amid the books. 
 
Grieving can start now. 
Tossed from temple roof 
on to mound of ash, you 
stand on your grave for final count. 
 
Again your voice will drown 
in a green pond. It was a 
prelude to a voicelessness for 
ever. Irretrievable was, a bird song.