At zero point on the ridge, you stumble on the stone piles
in the family cemetery of Andronicus Rai, a Catholic
You observe the mossy graves –
so beautiful yet permanent like an old face.
Like an orphan rock
with lichen’s artwork
Fog rises and falls
on everything. Mountains, graves, flowers.
Tin roofs. Hands.
Like a child’s eraser in a drawing class.
Is that all when the zero point is only much airy
and silent like an earplug?
How many people die in a war?
You look at the hills. Stoic poplars. Heedless peaks.
Sun’s weak fingers
on cardamom saplings.
A hungry cow is mooing down the slopes
There must be a hen
or a cat somewhere in search of sunshine for long.
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