Who understands the languidness
Of evening Zephyrs
And the vacillation of formless clouds?

A leaf decorates the garden
For one long season of aridity,
And struggles to hold on
To the tremulous branches of Autumn.

How many years of struggle are printed
On the countenance of an old man!?

Night suffused with fresh fumes of blood
And dogs howling with symphonic beats
The white scarf is not white anymore
So many hands left marks of butchery
On the fragile thread of its composition

Where should a mother hide
The last breathing gift of her husband?
No corner will stay un-frisked
It never has. It never will.

The night drifts into the lap of day
The day dies on the bosom of night
A poet laments on a white paper
Without any promise of redemption.


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