Statured amidst dews of petty things returned refreshed with
lungs full of Myrtle and Pine fragrance,
seeking serenity in a grotesques trammeling of worn– out Spirits
I roam, jostling fears and hopes and forgetting brand linen I ought
to wear– the only thing to be buried with…and the linen written all
over with Saffron and Rosewater all of my poems I was unable
to write on Friendship, for the poet’s sensitive Soul who once lived
in the Constellation of Peace- the same I want to rebuild here,
and the bright stars felt upon wombs of our mother’s shall bear witness.
One day when from the bleach-white or rather Neon– light
skeleton of mine, the shine shall emit the rays from the sky– wide dome.
Again I returned from the mossy ruins I was seeking the Beauteousness
of your being and you remember the wine we drunk even before
we knew not the separation. And there was none. As the souls of ours
merged long time ago and for eternity and a day more.