White boulders lay strewn everywhere
in this forest of black shirish trees near the dark Bhutan hills
They are spent gossips between the forest guards,
stars and the shirish leaves
I look at the boulders and consider the worthlessness
of telling so much
 
Half way through the woods, its navel is
a talkative fountain. Here at the core, I, silent and stubborn,
sit perfectly cross-legged; it is a new world.
I drink water with jungle crows
and I realize the woods always try to recommend
a school of relocation
 
I know this deciduous forest is a replica
of the old sky - a solace like a story-telling grandmother
where clouds float and replace each other
like our talking minds. They exchange cathedrals,
continents, daubs and elephants at midnight
 
How many diphthongs still I have in my veins?
How many screeches are printed on my toe nails?
I stand silently
before the church in the sky and watch
how elderly stars converse  with each other
whole night
 
I have a stray dog, Sirius, and a cheap harmonica – a gift
from the fern gatherers’ association
In this country of violation and fresh migrations,
I have some emergency medicines against levitation
at hand
 
I think about all the great songs
of tired clerks, saints and immigrants. I think
about Gregorian chants,
rock and roll, hiccups. I think of everything that I forgot
mid-month. My mouth organ now plays
a forlorn tune I actually don’t know