Moods

coming out of the frame, in evening without a sun, unflinchingly, he said, he was talking to his father daily, in his mind, who was in grave, (when he was on ventilator) about a lesson of deception, about the things evolved in endogamy, cherubic, it seems, but there was water on the moon too, in solitude, on gravel, under the rocks ; he kept on washing his hands for hours, to remove the dirt and stigma, gathered on shaking the lamps around the dark and then he started collecting the flowers from the embroidery of clouds do not cry in the afternoon SATISH VERMA