Time for the monthly burnings- all ashen beyond the school gates blue-

razed down green rebel in brown shoot ups- desiccated

delirious- veiled in the fury- from flowers falling in finality a furlong afar-

it must have a name- but no one remembers- white cupped stacked

falls in a file- shy of memory-

Then- a railway station- sweet for scandals- supply stop en route to a

famous hill spot- at the rear of which a jungle- hides- hushed when

the dragon yelled steam through the tunnel-

Axes eye the banyan- whose roots come in the way of setting new lanes-

vines coiled on it come in the chariot's path- the King's men will hack-

Promise to a giving ice- that you are- and it will keep freeze in faith-

change is a time function- white is the phoenix- sepals petals leaves buds-

all new mothers for the fallen flower- monkeys from the hill jog down

nightly for its bulbs- must have a name in monkey memoirs- but what is

in a name anyways-

Another act of resilience- at the foot of that tourist spot- now lost steam-

Barely two trains braking in a day- the rails wear a green mask already-

The planks mildewed- and the banyan- banyans never fall- really-

They sojourn in the earth when apes evolve too much for their own good.

~Ajay

17/12/18