Sarod. Winter morning.
A quiet farm of millet and breezes. Linen
with soiled creases.
A village with ancient excuses.
A moment of silence dots
the river of time. Plucked
by an unwavering note
floating over a bed of rhythms.
There in the corner, besides
all the figurines and rice sacks
we sat sagely watching
a composition ripen, the end
mingling with the distant calls
of winds conquering farms of millet.