Poems of a very solitary
adhere like a leech
on the crease of my inner wall
tinted with blurred darkness in red
Entrusting me for writing
snow has started falling with
its thousand poems,
the night lays their eggs of secret words
therein
ME Scattered as; A cup frozen with tea stains,
books read few pages or half,
an innocent ballad with the feather that crow dropped,
and a heap of dirty clothes,
filled with the words of snow.
The me in rapture,
plays the beloved loudly as perversion of writing down
then
the latter
repentance smeared
the fragrance of the gloom all over my body
writing is the pleasure of relieving,
so is the music.
I must posture yajna for pleading
the boon of non-writing
are your grays deeded for sitting on my lap
with a shortened hair?
Have your bareness and bosoms
distract penance vanished from you yet
yasodhara?
