JAVISTH BHUGOBAUN
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The slow hushing of winds
comes caressing my window.
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Breezes from a beautiful forest,
where the rustling of leaves meets
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the chirping of crickets,
accompanied by the burbling of a golden river.
A melody so magical and gentle,
it brings peace to broken hearts.
A harmony so mythical and calm
that it would make a flower grow on a battlefield.
She is incomprehensibly perfect,
like a little boy’s love for something as insipient as a doudou.
Freckled light kissing leaves who already lived…
And there it is, alone,
A simple bird, under a golden tree, rotting.
