by PURUSHOTTAM LAL

Is a flower of five petals.
Love’s the first
Where a lusting bee settles,
quenching thirst.

Faith is the second.
A drooping treasure
when reckoned
in fastidious measure.

Hope’s a third.
Brooding breast
Where a blood-spattered bird
takes rest.

The fourth I cannot see.
Only a limp hand
stretches endlessly
for the touch of land.

The fifth—look
Wrapped
in that terrible Book,
terrible man, terribly trapped.