Not to write was a broken  dream
Cut off from eye sockets, two stars
On the low, a budding of hibiscus.
The birds had come  from the dark
Their cries parodies of rain falling
In  Vishnu hills, in  forest trekking.

We look down from a black granite
On watchman's life, a liquid in veins
And on our life, when it would burn
Among stacks of  plastic garbage 
When water turned smoke in hills.
Not to write was a poem of smoke
Curling in the low hills of two stars.

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