शुक्रवार, 15 मई 2009


I cannot say who planted
those shadows in the Sun.
Whence, tempest- wild, upon the fine
torrid gaze of sunny day,
The sullen fist, silent mist
Coughing up a starry spray.
Those dark hooves of silent air
seen to crate suddenly
From that razor- sleek Sparrow- way
Where Sea and Sky touch rarely.
There is grief in twilight's undoing
grief of an ignorant tale;
Of loneliness that may never end
and tomorrow always far away.

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