Poetry

Somedays with
human touch, I will talk
to white roses with
blood spots.

This was inner beauty.
The ferns start walking to
cover the wounds of earth.

A sea horse stands
erect in sea to salute
the warship.

Where we are going?

When you don't leave
your thumb print, the song
of nightingale is lost.

How do you want
to die in the hands of
deaf and dumb god?