Our poetry is the last dreamy song sung in haste by a head on the rails listening to the rumble of the approaching train before the steel crushes its thought. – Farewell, by K. Satchidanandan
Wildflowers bound the wayside Thistle flowers and forget-me-nots No one watched them. They grew Of their own accord. No one cared. They willed themselves Into existence. Tenders shoots peeping out Feeding on the morning dew And the fire to meet the sky.