After transience and a bone filling
In the clay-pot for swirling water,
We are now into the other poems
About the ten year old mango tree
One does not know if it still exists,
Waving softly in old mind’s wind
And last of all to a swooping crow
That was stealing a carbolic soap
Now fails to come to eat our rice.
From transience we have arrived
At other poems about transience.
Seems there are no other poems.