The ghosts were potsherds , standing on one leg.
Their thin insubstantialness rose up to a hot sun
Showing up in cowherd clothes, waiting for bus.
The then cowherds along with cows turned souls
Standing among the potsherds of the then mud.
Mud comes in combinations of things and men.
We break to reinvent them afresh all through time
Under same sky, with a blazing sun studded in it.
The next time you visit archaeology sites, look for
Potsherds of our earthy existence in wall plinths.