You were not listening,
when I said―
" After offering my head,
I will go into deep sleep "

Coyotes were gathering. The
prairie was on fire. Under
the feet, the smoke was bursting.
You had started eating your toes.

Carrying the burden of unsavory―
reputation, the books were not
telling that time has stopped
and no lyrics were left in religion.

Sometimes in night, I will
hear the soft notes of a flute,
when, moon was rising and
muse will come and I would ask

" What was the need of inventing the hell? "