Laid by the moonlight
a silver sheet over lake, quivers
in the tranquil night.
The spilled silver of moon
over a distanced lake,
in the still of night.
A boy mounted at the edge of boat
dips his foot,
tearing apart the silver and solitude,
torn sheet quivers momentarily
The widening circles of ripples.
The Elegy To Autumn
Silence will not be the form of you in me
at the edge of fate, we scream
the last sigh of our exiatence.
The veins of trees are visible
devoid of leaves, as if free of all pretexts.
No where to go, blissfully it stands
as the last penance of our outcry.
The Other Storyteller
Do you hear his retiring, from day long work
his foot lazily falls on the ground
not to annoy earth or from tiredness.
The lossened clay and we call him,
gather round him and fire.
Sitting, the quite hours of childhood,
which have nothing to say.
By and through the fire he changes
everytime his transformation escapes us
stars stay for a while as a mute witness.
Words on the warmth of darting flame
reach our ear
smoke fill up the every space of childhood.
Amidst, he leaves few spaces for us to fill
with whisper and breath.
We the fearful
always fill up
lest his transformation and by him ours