From the ruins my offspring forceps out the burnt remains of my poem: "The sunflowers burst in my mind. They must have warned, but I tend to ignore the signs. The shrapnel in the spring zephyr pierces one or two stray thoughts. Somewhere, when the explosions hush, some music bleeds. I can hear." If there were other staves to this, future cannot tell now. Blue, green, yellow and rust choke all possibilities. My offspring's footsteps clot when the discoveries end. Another spring, perhaps one during a brief period of doves cooing Zen or perhaps time rides a pale wild horse, my progeny returns to the tent. The campfire glows atomic amidst the tar of the night.
©2022 Kushal Poddar
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…is an author and a father, editor of ‘Words Surfacing’, with eight books to his name, the latest being ‘Postmarked Quarantine’. His works have been translated in eleven languages.
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