(Transmigration)
My feet burned by hot, liquid sand.
It swalows my limbs like
An indian woman's voice
Engulfing inner lives
With her carnatic songs.
Māra is my mother,
Her kisses on my forhead
Are crowns of giant hogweed:
My precious nobility.
Oh sweet, sweet mother,
Why can't I hold onto you?
Blooming blisters on my palms
Forbid me to clasp and caress,
Filling the trenches of my arms
With muddy, liquid sand.
Are there rivers of stones
Out there?
I only remember the sand,
Pure blue skies, and fire.
No nights nor rest
No disturbance either,
Only the lingering soreness of
Absence.
