Poetry

Out of ambit― you resume 
the surfing again― on 
yellow tulips― 
in misting valley. 
 
One who will not bless 
the seed― will sit 
in shadow of hunger. 
 
Do not touch the― 
impossible blue of the 
eyes, unhunted by the tears. 
 
Snare or be snared. If 
there was a flint and 
the steel― do you think the 
spark will be faraway? 
 
In silent night, I will open 
the crypt to have a look again― 
at the wornout cloak of a paragon.