When you picked up
my pen, I wept.
Mercury rising,
the vespa gets ready
to strike.
This lifeless clay
wakes up, to bear the pain.
Do you remember,
when you bent down to―
touch the feet of a broken Buddha?
Before the ashes blew away.
you looked back
to make sure, it was a dream.
Stripped to the last color.
Van Gogh commits a sin.
He becomes alive.
This was my regime.
This was my echo.