Prana

To come under the blue sky
march north to the mountains.

Few steps into the odorous pine forest,
the wind is hushed – silence

is the truth of noise.

Flaming scarf of the sky
enfolds time. Over towering column

of air light slants at a degree that
diffuses colours

– green, blue, red –

into ochre. Disrobe
a life time – cleave it away as one would a garment,

a button at a time – the last touch of fabric,
warmth of the palm of the loved one

as breath turns to air.

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