Poetry

Of many gods,
I chose the rock-cut Buddha.
At night we would talk daily.

Like at talkathon―
I will accept his grace,
to follow my inner voice.

I will narrate about the
walking giants, silent birds,
and weeping Ashokas.

In togetherness we had
separated with hate in
aloneness.

The love bites don't
excite anymore. The religion
of sex and―

religion of war have
become one. I will not
recite any adage now.