Word

I am dissolving into words.The earlier ones burn away in the cremation ground.The ash comes back like rain, into my house.The Ganga runs through the wall.I am bathing in words, dying each time, living each time.

Words fly on as sentences, like white cranes,and catch on the calendar on the wall —on every day at once, my death is written.

Yama has come in with a kettle of tea. His face is my face.He is writing. I am writing.Together, with the same pen.

The forgotten words have woken.They tear the calendar, they fly about the room,they speak in my voice.

The cremation fire is burning, in my kitchen.The cranes are arriving in every burning particle.The line is not erased.It stays written on the bird's foot, in every breath.