I had to write the poem when the sky was fresh <br />In the twilight the mystery deepened and frogs <br />Croaked when they came out for a while to die <br />The next day the frog carcasses squished under <br />Our morning- walking feet, while looking at the sun <br />The stories went on unendingly, the white clouds <br />And the blue sky, as the east reddened in the leaves. <br />I was to write this poem and there was still mystery <br />And the mind overflowed with the eyes shut. <br />Poetry was dead leaves that stirred under the breeze <br />When there was hardly breeze, nothing, nothing. <br />Later, in the day, the rakings of gossamer moth-wings <br />Could be seen glistening near the window-glass <br />The clay-gods in the human museum were laughing <br />Actually outside the village the gods protected our honor <br />Human history went on in a stream and conscious, <br />Our shared conscious, that is. Fear and fighting. <br />Love making in the cave on rainy days and fine <br />Drawings of our animal friends with large horns. <br />Poetry came in fits as the trees fell one by one <br />The lightning struck power and we went windless <br />The night’s darkness had none of those liquid poems <br />The squall took all our wind and our lovely poems.<br /><br />Jagannath rao Adukuri<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-squall-took-our-poetry/
