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?