They are as strangers in Goddess’ home.
They greet us waving their breezy heads.
They bloom once they are our strangers.
They bloom a solidarity with us off-duty.
On duty they breathe a night’s fragrance.
They bloom on loud explosions of religion.
They bloom in a stranger’s room on duty.
They bloom as death’s own blood flowers.
They smell politely near the dead on duty
But turn dead in the garbage pile off duty.
They are no more strangers to our deaths,
Blooming solidarity with us in our deaths.