This poem while written grew longer and became a prayer. I have broken it, today comes the invocation, tomorrow I will publish the praise.
The seasons of my homeland are always embracing
Of the other, always longing and dreaming
The monsoon is a far traveller, missed by a perspiring summer
A humid air haunts this tryst of eager lovers
Deep green is the forest cover, a tongue striking
Across the wet mossy rocks and unbroken forests
Yet I live upon a crisp air laden, high plateau
Thrusting up into many faint seasons, passing fancies
A youthful green and yellowing flowering trees, above me
Violet flowers of an edging creeper, in the corner of what I see
Should it bare that name, the summer sun climaxing
When no sweat it brings out of me, should I call it by it’s name?