Strangeness whispers round and round

In colours of a familiar sound

The strangeness of that which we abandoned in the wastes of time

In corridors of a coming

Where we never wanted to return

But somehow sometimes we beget back down.

I found some tree’s today

And we made love

Themselves and I

I hope my worship was a fit repay

First I caressed the green forever fullness of the little giggling buds

And then found love dancing in the wind

A metamorphosis of leaves to hands conceiving light

“Well, the wickedness of them”

But thank God they didn’t hear me

And they danced on

In the strangeness of familiarity, we all forgot to become.

By Myra Desai

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