A small city
how oft I pass by
this garden bench,
pruning through the grass,
scatter of Kachnar and dewdrops
to the misty shores of far
where I feared the smoke
had risen,
I take all the waters of my lake
extinguish it
and return.
There is my peace
I might still have to
lunge for some air,
some grins of those greyheads
know me for
no reason
and a part of sky
where the breeze has
settled on the branches,
I, the freedom bird must rest now.
