The Fingers of Forfeited Children

The fingers of the forfeited
Sketch butterflies,
Merged with the soil;
And mark a bindi,
At the tip of their wings,
With their little fingers.

Frequently,
They wake up with a startle
From the afternoon nap
And smile,
In the sweetness of a jackfruit

Sucking the tip of the index finger
Keeping it,
Between the plaque – coated teeth
Gave it a pallid complexion.

At heedless times
They drew
With a thick piece of charcoal
On the white washed walls,
Flowers, leaves, eyes, wild seeds...

The barks of Chrysanthus
Fall off and lie together
With the grains of sand
On the courtyard
Those little ones
Just old enough to pluck pepromia plants,
Having picked up
The Fallen beads of anklets
Were hurt as they ran
Among the touch-me-not plants.
And there were scars on their fingers

Having been frightened of
The marks of lips
As they kissed the bell flower,
The sobbing sounds
Were in search of the ant-lions;
They left their finger lines
On the sand pits
As they counted their victims–
One... two...


Then pointing at the sea
They skulkingly uttered a sob;
Not even knowing
Where that goes
Not knowing where to point out

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