A Tale of Hunting

do suppose that the soil calls you by a whistling sound made by contracting its lips in repeated spell of weeping the oscillation of leaves forgets all amazement to get on board the train of magnolia who would deny such a blank cheque from the sunshine the green land of slumber gives you too a colourful welcome to comply the direction of the clouds the dialogues start in a new format could the veteran bureaucrats ever trace it hand-bag shakes off so much fun and that fuming-lad from his blue let suspended in the air the sound of conch-shell knitted in a white thread hi coral-deer do you too have the same wish then for you dear lady till now comes out from the dictionary a torn tale of disappearance