The night, caught in the fist,
Without any sound seeps into the roots
Of heart
The solitary river,
Still for pitching a note
Making a morning star its navigator
Flows as a silent wound
Time like a cat
Jumps from the space between the legs
Digs the past and sleeps in an underground room
Eyes glide their eyeballs
On the flow of dreams
Turn into cockle shells
Thrown unmindfully
The bloomed heart coils as the strings of sitar
Sighs and heaves a tune
That lacks any emotion
At least now
Slip down on this anguish filled sky
Becoming tears
Explode completely
For the grave sans dreams