Classic Poem

I can count on my finger tips
the chance scribblings
of momentary acquaintances
a tender word, or,
a cup of coffee put on my hands,
lie beyond the dial of the seismograph

Nemesis? Fate?
darkness daubs the rolls
of such reckonings.
who could after all pin dreams
to leaves and twigs
where the squirrel's tail ran wild.

They would rather not hear nursery rhymes.
So they hold you captive in a cuckoo's nest.
Oh my poor lunatic!
How could you with your two hands
push aside the clouds
from the morning sky!
They make spurious afternoons
as canopy to the tomb of your youth.

[Translated by Pradip Acharya]