Chilly December, morning–
Mr Everybody’s living room-

Sands, sands all over and summer sun of June
Sands, sands everywhere and not a shade to rest in-

Languorous, growing dull-
And mind’s tongue rummaging like a rat

Sultry breast of the desert
A brown weather-worn rock- a crystal teardrop on the back-
Teardrops of Roman Troilus
The dusty footprints gulp in Grecian war-camp,
Scarlet teardrops on the thirsty Skull a heavy dry log sheds-
And thunder-clatter that spouts echoes

echo and stream of water-
There’s no ground to theorize an equation between them
We are a stream continuous, not echo with sharp angles;
It’s not wrong to say man is not water molecule
But who can refute it if it’s said:

Man and stream are one and the same-

Which molecule do you pick and swallow
From the glass of clean water?

Sands, sands all over and summer sun sharp
Scarce vegetation, lethargic-

Channel change: THE OLD MAN’S INN

dark night, dark room,
a black man is musing:

long ago my sweetheart died, long ago
New guests come to this hospice
They are not she-
Yet, what’s their difference, difference from her?
Mind you, don’t they breathe my wife’s air?

Wet eyes can’t be seen in the dark
Yet a sob soaks the darkness.


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