The fillet of rain catapults its
Necessary drain of exfoliated dew
In the arms of an unwanting sea,
A seafaring want open to rhythm and
Shoal; the cut of the sentence is
Harm, the grammar, its sheath; and
When the dew coalesces, each mint
Of meaning is ripe for flight, and
The rain sings, the unwanting sea
Wants a new now; the ruined temple
Begs to be recast as the begging
Bowl, the fascist thug is thus the
Preacher, the lie and the absence
Of rain; the eye completes the holy
Rounds of excrement and smoke.
“Take your holiday, my boy; there are the blue sky and the bare field, the barn and the ruined temple under the ancient tamarind.
My holiday must be taken through yours, finding light in the dance of your eyes, music in your noisy shouts.
To you autumn brings the true holiday freedom: to me it brings the impossibility of work; for lo! you burst into my room.
Yes, my holiday is an endless freedom for love to disturb me.” – From the Fugitive; Rabindranath Tagore.