Nonsense

Time's voice floats in the songs of grass—

a colourless song, like cockroaches in deep dark.

Slugs and snails leave trails of nocturnal visits

- seems like they lost appetite for crispy pasture!  

Woodsy raw smell stops the motion of air

and, bumblebee's wings cease the hymn of Time.   

(don't you) remember what the faded grass said-

pointing at the crows feet trailed by slumbering snails

…that there isn't any thicker bush than grief, and

its but a thread's distance between a plus and a minus.

Time is (apparently) constant here.

Bypassing Time, the fig's bud finds

the hopscotch court, and customized wisdom.

The Talpukur gets robbed in crafty auctions,

Riding on stilts, screaming war cries,

whooshes in the Mog and Thug's gang; 

while the Kishor Baul of Ashwin fondles

the lilting shrubs upon the beckoning bay!

His flute is missing a beat or two from then on.

Even in such grandesque array of Life

the bumblebee remains a steadfast hermit!

The hermithood strays bogged under brick;

nobody wants wholesome pasture any longer!

Sensing this, the shellfish reiterates: there must be

a meaning to such adjustments… if nothing else,

let's keep rolling the dice in minimalesque steps.