A whistle Across the Burning Sky
A Whistle Across the Burning Sky .................................................................. In the deep hush of the Western Ghats’ green shade, where moss slowly claims the ancient breathing stone, I rest upon a rain-dark branch of silver Chembakam, a flicker of flame in the cathedral of leaves. * Monsoon mist curls through the tangled forest air, the scent of wet earth rising deep from the soil. Pepper vines spiral on the patient trunks of trees, untroubled by the restless reach of human hands. * Below, a shy stream slips through shadowed roots and fern, moving toward seas it has never dreamed to see. I guard the quiet heart of emerald forest shade, where ancient rains whisper in endless green halls. * No flag is stitched upon my crimson forest breast, no passport marks the paths my wandering wings take. I move through skies where borders never learned to live, where sun belongs to ant and pine alike. * Yet the wind brings a taste I never asked to know, the iron-cold br...