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
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