Trivial

by Jagannath Rao Adukuri

It all seems to be a made up cause
As you perform your age as age says
The body ceases to think like mind
In art of picture making, a light box
To catch a hibiscus in its deep red
To understand the nature of things
Or the art of word making from night
A factory of words, from early sun
A sun making gold leaves of clouds
A skin rising to a goose of cold wind
Just making light of things and airy.

It is not all that important the game
Mothers have devised to keep alive
The babies bawling from their lungs
Not important to hold heads high
On sliding beauty glasses of smiles
On noses softly oozing labor drops
Not important for hands to clap air
Making noises, as if of noses feeling
A sudden gush of water from above.

This word making is a trivial thing
Like babies bawling, mothers crying
To the hem of sarees, in a dusk light
Like mothers crying near the phones
As of recent head colds, their noses
Making many trivial running sounds

About absences of sons in the hall.