Today and once again, I saw my Fanny in the hubbub
Of Lal Chowk, beside the terminal of Pratap Park.
I have been stroked again by her matchless aesthetics,
She is the sanguine genre of beauty,
I have had applied for times to study in her
Institution of amber-aesthetics.

She is herself the minister there,
Doesn’t let me step into the church of her heart.
Wailing, forwhy I didn’t pronounce the letter and
Those two words of volcanic lahar: I Love You.

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Old Age Home

O God! If Thou can’t proffer me music now: the music
Of…, O Supremo! then let me – howl a vociferous cry,
– “Fall upon the thorns of life!” let “I bleed!”.
Thou art well familiar about my semblance.
I can’t have t’is “… smothering weight … off …”.
And sing in corollary the rhymes of lullaby.

The dose of my drugs is touching the horizons daily.
Yes, I have grown in line with the medicines and X-rays,
But I have zero affinity with t’is uncanny ache of heart,
Aching thorough entire penetralia, her savage beauty,
Old love in newfangleness really pains the patients of heart.

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