in the tinge of a valiant wick
in this season of a thousand flowers
it will never be dark in the house, 
the veiled silence of voices 
is everywhere 

     the white mountain shields our grief
     fingers overlap on the tambura note
     for a prayer-boon we did not redeem,
     the wet coir of the windlass churns 
     the clay brazier ruminates 
     the rose-apple scatters an afterglow 
     on dung-battened carapace - the haulage 
     which stokes the meal of
     rice, lentil, pickled mango and greens  

hooves of thunder clink on pebble
silken fields arch their necks 
in the monsoon of sunlit rain,
the nonsound left behind is
the un-gathered legend 
of the white mountain’s heartbeat.