Yesterday’s Golconda was the rhizome
That would make it a new green verse,
From a poem lost in transient memory.
The shepherd’s mountain hosted ghosts
Over matchstick sounds across bushes.
Today it is back again dreaming out of.
We better exorcise female ghosts from it.
They are a flesh turned stone with men.
Their sleeping tombs are cold with past.
Bodies were covered in a male darkness
And their stomachs homes to male egos.
Now they are in the same stone as men.