Food for Thought

The sky has darkened before its time:

a swarm of locusts,

not a thunder-storm.


To protect my tender crops

I build foolish fires,

burning everything handy.

The smoke drives some away,

kills some.  The rest descend.

Hosts of them camp in my head.

Frenzied, I run about,

stamping the earth with bare heels.

I shout, clapping bits of tin

to distract the devouring.


When there is a famine within

we shan't go completely hungry:

we'll heap all the dead words

and cook them.  It is said

they are delicious with rice and lentils.


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  Copyright © 2005 - Makarand Paranjape