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No wind trifles with
the hangings of the window of mine
And, so, teases the
pink gown of mine laid on bed
The red wings of his,
thus, get thrilled and his perfume scents of the latent love
No gown
From whose color the
scent of love is woven
And the savor of milk
No perfume the waist
smells of
No home for the bodies
of ours in winter
We just…
Draw off the curtains
For winter to mate the
lust of the night,
In shyness,
The winter of ours is
shy
In my longing for you
While you are on the
watch
With the glare of the
manhood of Yours,
The winter of ours is
shy
He is raping the walls
of silence.
A Call
From the menu of mess
Along with that cup of
yours you cross the time of mine,
An eve of collapses,
An eve of the tremor
of leave taking,
And the pusillanimity
of lingering.
Does the bluishness of
the dream of mine
Make you hear moaning?
Do you steal amid the
breezes of the memory of mine,
To lick the corners of
The worn out photos ?
I am fighting off a
time of Yours,
Wherein the language
of rout straightens out,
At eve,
When the eyelid of
yours calls upon me to sleep,
The wont of let-down
gets hold of me,
And ornates the abyss
of Yours
That is on the watch. |
The Files of
Weariness
(1)
Neither does the air
mould me
Nor the smell
You yourself
The fable I am
offering
And you offer me back
The long slumber story
of mine
Within the dream
I am looking for a
language
Upon whom I bestow the
frenzy of memory
The acuteness of
clamor
And the manacles of
weariness
Some water creatures
Enkindle me solitude
and clamor
And sea.
(2)
I know you are
smothering
The word
A silence telling
The tale of
The rosy weariness.
Tomorrow’s Ruins
None
But the pains of the
precipice
Do usurp the edge of
the heart
With no voice smashing
into the sadness of mine
With no epitome
Throbbing the pulse of
joy and love
And gripping the rosy
star.
In my palm he sows
her,
Heedless of that
sobbing ,
It’s the wind ,
The echo of your very
voice
She weaves the threads
of an infatuation ,
And draws the lip of a
tenderness.
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