Poetry

Not thinking of you
in vacant mood.
Sometimes you want to put
questions to yourself.

Touching the bruises, like
a lover, not to feel the pain. You
want to wipe out the hurts,
trespassing the area of darkness.

Changing the script, you want
to etch out your name―
on the trunk of a fig tree. Under which
a Buddha wanted to meditate, but did not.

The hands print will tell the tale
of a masterpiece built by them after which
they were chopped off.