Living on shifting sands,
do not go for the rains.
One day you will become
a robber crab.

A cross-dresser you were.
My candle burns to see
your face in dim light. Moon
said, it was not yet dark.

Playing with rustling leaves
of autumn. I went on collecting
the gifts of winter like my
variant moods, yellow, brown and red!

Go and meet my deadpan
silver. It would never be my
sizzling poem. I will pour the
green river in your blue eyes.