The clay-pot filled
of me
as words unadorned,
paints the fragrance of
this very dusk
on the inner wall
An alleyway furcates of unknown
enlarged as
adjoin-able in me the self,
Writes the note of this very dusk
“Path is the destiny”
Then through the scars of
decayed window
bursts as light the great word
imperishably coloured of
thee
