It rained last night,
dampness giving a tumultuous pleasure the day before,
town was burning.
Weeping ashoka laden with smudges,
and sky was crimson red,
You could not avoid this heat and dust,
love and hate; sharing the cooling winds.
The patterns are changing, what to redeem, what not.
Trampled by death everywhere,
frightened words go for a dignified fall.
We are trading our bruises for moorings.
A happy notebook is blasted, and motif goes into exile.
World moves in circle, it will touch you again
A strange divinity puts you in oblivion.
The spirit walks some steps with you,
and then disappears.
My grass burns in front of me.
This has been a festival of slaughtered dreams.
