Dying Flames

When white mushrooms 
come in procession 
after the rains, 
you bring back my ache― 
O pink rose 
words fall like birds. 

Caparisoned, the 
moon was rising from 
the sand dunes, like a 
camel after the festival of kiss 
of love. The singed bank 
of the lake was submerged in tears. 

Fold your wings, O peacock, 
clouds are going back home.