The roots must beg in the shit and mud,
among the carcasses and the decomposed;
spindling whiskers around grains holding
water tight as briefcases of money; feeling
with pin-sized tips their way through
snake-pit of competitors; tunelling eyeless
to regurgitate eternally life’s slop.
To break through to the light in multi-armed
resplendence like Hindu Gods; their fanned
out canopies of leaves and blossoms: glorious;
beauty like swans above the water-line,
a million miles removed from their subterranean
engine-rooms.
