Out of ambit― you resume
the surfing again― on
yellow tulips―
in misting valley.

One who will not bless
the seed― will sit
in shadow of hunger.

Do not touch the―
impossible blue of the
eyes, unhunted by the tears.

Snare or be snared. If
there was a flint and
the steel― do you think the
spark will be faraway?

In silent night, I will open
the crypt to have a look again―
at the wornout cloak of a paragon.