By Mayra Rana
KALOPSIA
The wheat shines like the sun
Its ripeness golden
It covers the earth, like thousands of golden arrows
Shot deep into the moist land
And it is beautiful.
The dead thistles and grass
Are rusty and vintage
The shade of brown, can change your mind
To know the beauty
That death too can hold.
The flowers we name bougainvillea
Smear the cluster of trees
The same way blood clots a wound under the skin
Smeared with mad desire of
Calling it beautiful too
The sheets of soft, thick plastic
Strewn over the lush grass
White, yet proven impure
And so apparent to seem
Like the clipped wings, of a beautiful child of Cupid
Children sprint their way through streets
Eager to distance themselves from boredom
Mud fills the cracks of those mischievous palms
A fine layer on hair and face of beautiful childhood
Slipping through our hands unnoticed.
Why do we say then that beauty is only inside?
After gazing at the moon and her little stars
Can you dare to say, even once
They do not appear, though scarred
Simply beautiful?