The Poor Crowd-
hungry, thirsty, disturbed and agitated,
lost their only capital- their stony patient
in melting down the mountain-
icy, hard, haughty and static
setting ablaze a flame of their chainless emotion
unrecognized and humiliated,
hoping the conversion of the mountain
into a few vital streams and fountains for them.
Alas!
Instead,
the merciless mountain
engraved the poor crowd
into the depth of the ditch of death
erupting its fountains of fire and streams of ghostly lava
and the restless crowd was made calm forever
compelling the moon to hide behind the
sneaking clouds in shame
and an owl
sitting on the top of a banyan tree to escape
swinging the branches to shed down their leaves in sorrow.
