At half past four in the small morning hours of a May summer day before sun rise, I sit on a concrete slab on terrace; my legs folded, eyes closed, waiting for the mighty sun to appear before me, waiting to embrace the beauty of
Nectar to my throat, Blood to my heart, Air to my lungs, Oh lady, you are the life-giver to me, to my loins. The pearls of water, a sheen on your blossoms; You are a nubile maiden, a nymphet, ascended from heaven. My lady, you
I feel a splurge of sadness;
wistful me roams around,
like clouds incapable of rain.
Anger grips me for a moment;
pride follows with attitude;
ego comes soon and I suffer alone,
without my own shadow.
Stroking the paddles,
the skiff was rowing mid-stream,
I could see nothing but knolls and cliffs.
The river taking sharp turns,
grappling with gravels, and bergs,
making way like the potentate and imperious.
It’s flow is transcendental,
more promising than Oxytocin,
more ravishing than a nymphet.
Let it flow.
none to not bend it,
wrench, or veer away.
Let her fly. Sky high. With no sigh. Let her live a happy life, with no major dive into the sea, from the sky, piercing the clouds and water alike, reaching the bottom, of sea with no gill, only to come out, fighting own will,
As I lifted my eyelids, adjusted my spectacles, came out of my quilt, got on my sleepers; As I walked to the balcony, calibrating my vision, I saw no sun, but fog and rain. With dankness all over, I saw wet roads, trees, flowers, and