Poetry

Again a forest
walks, wounded and broke.
I sculpt a poem.

To get some relief
of truth, give me a vedic
hymn, Beethoven script.

The spring waits in
the buds of chest. When love
sprouts, look at the moon.

A virgin kiss
of Karma, turns the page.
Acid-burned, my hand
hold the pen.

And I think of
the beautiful orchids trying to
find a home.