Sigh of Sin ? (Part - 1)

in this world of the limped nuptial i’ve appeared as a power-missile of the lac-dye that is used by the hindu women to paint the border of their feet the tooth-ache of some-one pumpkin that grows on the thatched roof of a hut has wringed spirally my mythological birth with corporate death managing and arranging my thoughts on what I was in the past what I would be in the future or what is my dos at present the wonder-paintings of the altamira cave unfolds its wings beside my painful in-growing nail and in her own sky of miss marry my hands become so much condensed in every drops as if within that moping smog without any speech speaks the twinkle twinkle little star… beside that labour pain what awakes then is the patronage of a one-horned idea along which while walking without much preparation i can enter into any e-mail though our love pulls a very long-face about itself and in the opinion of the married women the sigh of the sin ? of our love wants to cultivate mustered-seeds on the soil of the inhabitants of this human-life with a stick by which the monkeys are driven out what more can i say in lieu of a piece of red-salute written in green ink if i say in the dawn of the 52-cards i touch your face by the hands of a school-boy your calmness and earthly perfume make me stunned then in this field of sweat and war the explosion of logic and intellect of your top-floor seems more famous anchor than the milk that spilt over on the fire and more to say when daubing all over the body all taste of the path of joy enter into then fort of gold you can notice there when in some unknown moment my pajama dies socially by the bite of the snails and oysters to keep the heart of the break-kiln always move this form-less interactions are so well in the harvest-arrangement of the late-autumn we are all uttering the name of cherry-flower and begging shelter from the mango leaves