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…The 8.0pt;font-family:Garamond”> kite drifts away severing its thread cut to
infinity
Afar rushing kids vie for
the crashlanding pie outcry:
…Cutting lo kite
cutting ho… cutting lo kite cutting ho…
.
Dawning amber sun
Raw smell of fresh green
crops in the erratic wind
At wee hours in the jute
field after a brawl over land
the unanimated jostling
bodies of youths lie
their bellies cut by one another’s
sharp sickles
Afar glide the unsin
children’s fie:
…Cutting lo kite cutting ho… cutting lo
kite cutting ho…
.
Yet the gypsy wind or the
playing brisk kids
do not cognize such much
hostile killture
They do not agnize the
fierce tactricks of the sly
So they jeer to cut to
trail after the kite to cheer
Afar veer & fly their
sheer hue & cry:
…Cutting lo kite
cutting ho… cutting lo kite cutting ho…
