Death is a soft gray kitten
Fondling my thighs.
A dead gray moth
Lying in the fallen leaves.
Once a butterfly was off
Unfolding petaled loves.
But then, I know, a butterfly deceives.
A touch of birth,
An after-taste of death,
It's hard to tell the worth
Of flowers with one breath.
As pleasures lie
So leaves and petals fall
So moths and butterflies must die.
A soft gray kitten fondles of us all.
- Sitaram (written 1965)