A wandering wave upstream
A buoyant pull of water downstream
In the middle,
there is no one else
Then why do dreams break into pieces?

The grey feathers of time also fall off
What’s the harm if you become a river?
Are women like desiccated, fallen leaves?
They fall aplenty,
Like rivers that change courses and contours, lose their flowing pace.

Will you change too?
If you change, then you may do so
The sediment in your abdomen that you have
Accumulated bit by bit, will it also exhaust in the end?

No matter if it gets exhausted,
No matter if rivers flow
I am writing a dirge of fallen leaves
While penning it,
I become speechless.