The birds will land there first,
Before she reaches the last rung.
So her eyes only find spaces,
Where ripe fruits had once hung.
She cannot have the finest-
The golden chilli tinge.
One hesitates to follow,
One with blossom-pink skin.
So the wind polishes apples,
Peeping through moth-size holes.
Just as the storm erodes hearts,
In the abyss of lost control.
She empties her empty pocket.
Wind whistles through her rags.
Plays music on marrow pipes.
Sleepless eons make concrete bags.
But there is no pale flesh,
Just this withered shell.
And she is just as hollow as
This bittersweet bell.
-By Jelly Pom