We sat in a circle
Of gnawed fingernails,
Our bowed heads drawing
Hieroglyphics of hope
Listening to our bold patriarchs
Setting fire to
All we had feared once —
Tipsy on epithets
We moved on
Through blue skies and storm:
Soft and easy prey
To swooping, claw-sharp lies.
Now, disturbed
By arrogant flies,
Helpless to turn back
The recalcitrant clock
Toothless we watch
Our bald patriarchs belch
Squirming, raise weak sticks —
Hesitate even to rub dry twigs.
what an imagination .. wonderful !
Thank you, Sarala.
Loved the last stanza… Awesome!!