Brief Thread
This life, a brief thread
to string moments
like pearls or trinkets.
With a last breath,
we can count
nothing as our own.
Why measure now
the weight of loss, gain,
praise, or blame—
no more than rice
to be nibbled at by rats.
The south wind is strong today.
The departure of any love
is to be expected. Still,
the sudden flight of the nightingale
shakes the fronds
of the gooseberry tree,
her green fruit bitter when ripe.
Published in Setu
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