“Herbs, trees, cattle, birds, and other animals that have been destroyed for sacrifices are reincarnated in higher existences.”
                                                                                        Manusmriti : Chapter V, 40                                                                                               

The silent jangle of disjointed bones is muted in the breeze over the field of salt where on rainless months grasses grow for the cattle to feed.

There is something to a dead wing of a butterfly that tells stories of forests where sunlight dappled on dry leaves in flight: gold coins bobbing on the breath of the foliage where you grazed in silence.

The marigold is the orange warmth of my heart, but the edges are a little frayed, bleached pale as pearly shells, the folds under the flared nose moist and dipping into that eddy of ivoryness.

The day hangs on a bird’s cry, the time between life and death suspended on the hook of a song; you tear with impatience like a coat filled with wind ready to blow away.

The leaf twitches in the breeze, a bird trills away in the drugged heat of day, as the moon fills into the sadness of your eyes.

You knot yourself into the umbra of existence, ball of fear rolls away as the whites of your eyes take the color of the placid blue sky, painless like a mirror emptied of reflections.

I toss a coin into the river for you, I watch the disc fold in the light like your eyes before they closed the final time, when they rested on the grass field outside my window.

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