I again went for the goldfish.
One day I took you, in the
night sky, rubbing on the
sea, under an ebony moon.
The roasted munching in
fabricated letters for
the orgiastic drill.
Why one always becomes
sadistic in self- torture,
the drifting among tombs-
of broken words, in our
maligned ink? The clear
path suddenly becomes invisible.
I again hear the sobbing of
a trembling ghost of past.