He lingers on, yet not a stranger
To entertain, The Precursor of time
And finales’ countless danger.
One needs a turn albeit on a dime.
It has always been and always will be
Irrelevant all the same, though…
Neither feverish nor chilly
To resort to Ibn Sino.
The wind stirs a tree branch
To let the luminance last
Then a shadow’s cast
Like one below eyelashes, nay –
Under a weeping willow
On a hot summer day.
Pray, it’s premature to miss
Untouched by a smiling riddle
Nor the bow
That ravished no fiddle
Or the landscape
April 18, 2011
some songs’re like distant howling of suburban trains,
evoking memories like pouring summer rains;
you don’t know how,you don’t know why the torrents flow,
they leave right in your heart a dim uncanny glow…
down some intangible rails they go,delivering mirth ,
sad spectres of forgotten faces and what not ,
and afterwards you hate to be awakened back on Earth.
last drop ,i gaze into your eyes ;oh ,please ,don’t go , don’t …
So grainy is the air of March,
I let it in with all its salt,
I let it go with all its starch
That clouds are made of, steering cold
Of elements: they meet, the sea, the sky;
Of salt and iodine’s deep breath
I take; on opening the inward peering eye
I see a clearing in the depth.
So far, vast spaces: blue in green,
They stretch beyond myopic sight;
A tiny patch, ultramarine,discerned
Among the clouds pouring light.
I’m circling round my stuffy room,
Atlantic breeze inhaled through Moscow’s March
And watch in disbelief Herculean Pillars loom,
Washed by the foam of tidal starch.