It all seems to be a made up  cause
As you perform your age  as age says
The body ceases to think like mind
In  art of picture making, a light box
To catch a hibiscus in its  deep red
To understand the nature of things
Or the art of word making from night
 A factory of words, from an early sun
A sun making gold leaves of clouds
A skin rising to a goose of cold wind
Just making light of things and airy.

It is not all that important the game
Mothers have devised to keep alive
The babies bawling from their lungs
 Not important to hold  heads  high
On  sliding beauty glasses of  smiles
On noses softly oozing labor drops
Not important for hands to clap  air
Making noises , as if  of noses feeling
A  sudden gush of water from above.

Word making is surely a trivial thing
Like babies bawling,mothers crying
To the hem of  sarees, in a dusk light
Like mothers crying near the phones
As if of severe head colds, their noses
Making many trivial running sounds
About the absences of sons in the hall.


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