The constant circle of the windmill
makes the goats' eyes eerie.
Those belong to the serpents. To the angels.
My ex-workman uncle slips into sleep
in this laid off land. The windmill
irrigates the fields filled with the creepers.
The squeaks and whooshes stream over and in between.
The goats refill their mouth.
Sleep reloads its magazine, and I pick up
the pieces of my uncle.
Everytime someone says 'soul' I cringe.
--
Kushal Poddar, the author of 'Postmarked Quarantine' has eight books to his credit. He is a journalist, father, and the editor of 'Words Surfacing’. His works have been translated into twelve languages.
Twitter- https://twitter.com/Kushalpoe