We climb the Koro hill.

Forty years and still ascending
gives a good feel.

We stand under a Madhuca tree
blossoming in March heat and rain.

From the hilltop
the valley down below
looks dreamy grey.

We've greyed and graded
past full bloom.

In the wafting fragrance of Madhuca
we pray to hold on
for some more.

On the white screen dance the stringed dots
Mind spilled codes of hieroglyphic thoughts
Slowly they emerge handholding lines
Not always yielding intended designs.
Something was brewing inside the head
Coaxing to weave and take it ahead
The drunken horses so wildly gallop
There is no leash to make them stop.
Nerves are taut and they won't relax
Till all is vented they reach the ******
It was thus fated the moment it was sown
What's to be grown could never be known.
As the fever wanes arrives the new child
It may be adored or it may be defiled
The canvas is washed clean as in the rain
Something is brewing to be vented again.