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Poem

1
from the utterance of the clouds I can understand now
there is no particular season which may be called as rainy 

in any time those weak-days may be drenched 
the water-mark of the candles may exist after the sun rises 

now whether it was a wrong way or a wrong going 
that debate is still on  

2
you put the age over my shoulders 
but I can’t roar so much why 
my anger is then no more a child 

if the yellow colour means the disappearance of whiteness 
from the locked-teeth then the bird will fly 
with its beaks getting experienced 

when all one around here 
wants to be the seed of the intellectual grass
how much relevant is such a mute lamp-post

3
the morning of the clouds awakes 
touching the line of rains 
another giant night keeps waiting 
in the darkness of the other 
that delta rises in the secret water of the river 
where with the songs of the birds 
the hot coffee acquires the lips   
the hands are as if like very known creepers 
the tree is in search for a brown body 
to which if a marriage could be organised 
the thought of the disturbed walls also disappears

4
I am sitting here in this shadow-hell 
unfurling a paper on the strong storm 
before night comes keep your face up 
from the silky letter 
and let me see you
I would not go to that fabrics again 
of late I have turned into stone by heavy rain-fall 
now heat is required in equal measure 
for which I shall have to become loser in every game 
afterwards with my dusts 
this paper will fly away
you recreate me with a new fever

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