I’ve gazed into slime-sodden canals of night
With larvae of fevers and pain
And even have chimed with toads that croak
Concert in gutters unclean.
Roots that have rotted are all
Eyes in the bushes can grasp.
And though I’ve searched while choking on mud
Proverbial lotus in filth –
Swollen with bites of insects unknown
Mine is the harvest of rust.
Peeled into puppets of pulverized husk
We totter on the banks of canals of slime
And slither into blind man’s bluff.
Further upstream, the beggar still sings
Blind but dreaming of stars.