Posted by: Ron DuBour | June 12, 2017

CUSCUS* AND CAMPHOR~by Balachandran Nair




Cuscus I am, not the African millet,
Nor the specie of Australian possum,
I am the fibrous root of that sacred
Indian grass, so cool and so fragrant.
Like old-aged daddy cut away from home
I am cut at head of root, lift uprooted
Like they bath dead body, spray perfume
I too am washed, still hold my perfume.
Like daddy used to stand on his own feet
I too grew, never sought anyone’s treat
Now son light dry skin, who never cussed
I underneath, lighted, too never smoke cuss.
To comfort us in peril, sky, the witness send
White camphor, clouds,wind fan cuscus
Look at the son who ignite the whole now,
Enjoy the fragrance of burnt existence!

* Khus-Khus



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