The path through the woods, thick and foggy,

this time of the year, dark and rainy.

The final draft is made by God.

The pleasure of losing the way

just when you think you are nearing the quay,

catch the last ferry home and fall into the arms of sleep.

Desires stir, longings point towards an unredeemed memory.

My roads are flanked by tall pine trees

and the noon day shadows curl up at their feet.

Flaming orange, the colours of the orchards

calling to feast upon the ripe harvest of the season green.

How I wish it would rain, and rain so hard as to wash my blues away.

Sushama Karnik.