He blows air, his lips o, cheeks puffed.
Words fly, create sparks when rubbed hard.
Vocal cord is the bowl with offerings of sounds –
sibilants, glottal, plosives and fricatives.
Muscles knot to produce the right aspiration,
a small slip could change the meaning
turn day to night, Rudra to turtle,
desire to freedom, moha to moksha.
The murmur of chants like bees in the forest
smears dark the day, simmers the juices of
existence, thick and syrupy, dark as Soma
who in intoxication rises in fumes to the skies.