swamped in mud
When you close the gates
on me, I feel
suicidal – tell me Neeta,
do you care?
Or, like a rude swan
you turn your back in pride?
as if I am your sin of last birth
there are images
swamped in mud
from the tyres of your speeding car,
these are the images
in the head – I lay bare
Far away there are men
and women and lillies
in their gardens,
to protect them from the frozen sea
of defeats and battles,
I can hear them sing – feeble,
from the skin of my last death.
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