Pure

From Meghlapur

In monsoon, the haunting
of these desolate places—green and old:
the vegetative earth pure and cold—
Enforcing the heart to be dormant.
Let the moss grow on the pebbles,
Weed on the stones.
Those long traces of memories and forms
That melt in the mist.
Each little stone and pebble, content
And ready to resign itself
To this unprohibited growth.
Let there be no return from this end:
I give myself to you…
Come weed grow on me too!