That keep appearing on all our faces
Drawn by a hand as time traces
Like the lines on an organic Fuji

Some of which are born of sin
On the skin and some within
Like the trunk of a pregnant Oak

Trembling hands that fail to hold
A life’s worth of pain and gold
Like the petal slipping off a rose

Fruit of autumn, flower of age
Seasoned by the hands’ rage
Like the hunch of a windswept Palm

Scenes painted by the Past
Which, eyes of Now, watch aghast
Like the lava, cold and black


~ Nihit Kaul

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