What Makes It Beautiful Poem by Ajay Sawant

The rain has fallen for the last time, I am piling blithesome
the lavas will burn and I will cut, fall out
of the path, the juggler for concluding time, or this moment

I am made a machine; a dead instrument
the fistful of water that stays decaying the portwood
unwanted
undesired
unpleasant occurrence

I have held my head in the east to negotiate to small interest in the west
I look at a red woman— she — fixated in my eyes
a jaw-dropped mouth

'Something very dry has happened to our son' my dad yells
I staring the blanket as the mist covers the sky
When they catch clouds of unloaded fruition

Who cut the power of the world?
And who cried the wolves for love?
The knowledge of then resides in now. And now when all of it is forgotten
What else makes it beautiful but forged pieces of it.