Soil breathes life into walls of ruck
And mud; stalk of tears carry no proof
Of ancient misdemeanors or shafts of
Now; love of soil spots root of soul;
Man of earth scrambles out of child
Noons and waterfires crucifying word
Of soil, part of then of old, and now
Of humble mask and fire – viced roar.
Gathering just-a-bit-o moss 
Again, as you do so well, the themes and sounds are densely woven. Not for the sake of technique but to covey the richness we see and feel when we can stop our seeing and feeling from being taken over by each other. Thank you.
I was in Mohenjodaro two days ago where I met a soil conservationist/restoration expert, a true man of the soil whose love of Mohenjodaro inspired the poem. Thank you.