mist clings to tree-tops, to thatched roofs of shops,
a manful sea winds clear of tired coasts of yester-years
but what have i known of feelings, even my own
that i should hope to hear bells presaging something else?
Indeed no love of next May shall yet stay
as no flower of last April has lingered still
can there be truth in store if i have always missed it before
can a birth adorn the bed before what’s dying is dead?
©Krishnamurti Ganesh