Songs are invented from the throats of
bamboos, when their robust stems
smile through the caress of the sun.
And melodies seep through the
the lean threads of the plexus, gently.
Balmed by the cosseted whims of
lewd bees, the crux of the tune, soothed
and remedied, slowly besieges us.
Songs are wayward....
Haunting,
they regain lost motion
by way of re-greening loam-based,
gel-greased silhouettes of cadences
from atop sluices
dug by
chants.