Elancharan இளஞ்சேரன்

burning strawmans but the weeds still remain

october war what’s left to fix

be quiet be still be you if you have to

mad thoughts consume half the autumn sky

a third interrupts the intense tango of a butterfly pair

acres and acres of burnt grass to feed this flesh

neither the words nor means to celebrate your return autumn haze

must be somewhere here the cold hands I’ve misplaced

onwards until this flesh disintegrates

i reckon we’d never know the number of hands it took to raise the moon into the night sky