Late poems

There it is my own mountain
With a mouth open at its top
A hole in a childhood village
Where monks lived for peace
In a hole, now in bigger hole.
These late poems breath life
To old choked with bare trees.

The good old poet sets about
Re-ordering pines, avoiding
The clutter of the top clouds
To be free of unseasonal rain
With the resultant mud in sky
Drowning a pines loneliness
At top, late poems are about.

Krishna’s mountain frees us
From stone rain of angry gods
And we are down in its under,
What our late poems are about.

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