The river may owe its amblings
Of the night
To the leisure strokes
Of lunar plumes
Elated by the rustle of
Long dead leaves;
(To this imagined applause)
The koels may owe their song
To the bashful flight of clouds sans reach
The mountains may owe
Heightened majesty
To the breeze that plucks the dew
And drops it to the ground
The ants may owe
The thrill of the march
The graveyard may owe its
Deepened silences
To the wisdom of spent pyres
To its terrene love for the stars
The earth may owe
The ebb and flow
Of endless waves of grass
To thy visions
My poesy may owe
Its existence
