Your fingers twisted
like question marks.
Age subdues the basic―
instincts. I was,
trying to douse the fire.
You go your own
way in snow. I think the moon
and the palm will not take
any offence and keep on
courting.
The tongue swims
up streams. You will not
fathom out the depth of
the tears, where the―
religion drowns.
Here it goes, the wooden
horse, fully dressed to
bring the groom. The rock
painting speaks of the terror
of unseen gods, who too, were happy.