“The difference between a path and a road is not only the obvious one.”
― Wendell Berry
Now, the unburied mumble a song.
Nobody knows why it is dear to them.
Summer dusk, warmer than other months
is not ideal for ferns to grow greener.
Aware, they prepare for another fate.
The unburied sing –
their decibel cuts through a winter night
left with excesses of fissure fragments.
Now, the unburied lay on a footpath
resemble Dadaist art.
This physical place of empty roads
material capillaries of dark roads –
under a flyover you see them slumber
their eyes beget the shape of early dreams
burnt with autumn leaves.
The municipal is commissioned
to wipe leaves that fall on the road
as though to clear space for an unknown fate.
Now, the unburied remove food
from a polythene
in the wee hours of night,
light a fire and watch their reflection
in the incandescent flame
along a coast that shimmers with
yellow streetlamps and children
imagine the sea as free as a butterfly.
How does the fluttering of a closed heart
sound, like birds flap their wings
while allowing a moment for flight.
Now, the unburied amid ashen hue winds
rise from underbellies of roads.