A pain in the temple rises like the wind
Only to come down  like  in winnowing
As  grain goes into your eyes ,an oldness
Disappears in a turban of orange light

A woman of no winnowing consequence
Turns instrument of fiddling and  turning
 Machine power to harvest wind ,to a few
 Shadows playing under a giant banyan ,
 Vignettes of see, not  all grand spectacles.

At dusk the grain flies ,  orange sun flies
And the banyan flies, and the pain flies
As much  has risen and fallen in temple

A death of girl-woman-child is  a stone
Now  a tree  waving  to the passing wind
Pain flows like tree sap upwards to sky
Arising in  deep earth root and flowing
To the temples where it throbs like dusk
And sets behind eyes to return  next day.


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