The sharp edge of icicle hangs
From the postbox of winter.
The love as if
Pierced by the leer of an emergent knife
Left behind the stolid river
Following the impassible time.
What have you kept beneath the glacier -
Blood or ashes?
The memory of lost piece of sunshine
Grows a thousand hums.
The shadow of a dead starburst
On the unclear windowpane
Clutches onto the benumbed fingers.
What is this incorrigible weaving of anemic words
From the lost warmth
That had merged with an emptiness!
Never so appealing
That Kanchenjunga would rise in its golden glow
Knowing all lie unread,
Will they leave their path of dreaming sunrise
And follow the setting Sun?
