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Sea waves would go on for ever
And life would not go on for ever.

We are thinking this and all this
A thinking will stop some where.

A song will have to stop for next.
A stopping would go on for ever.

In all your page’s disappearance
Poem is random act of kindness.

As a sun disappears like a page.
Soon there will be another page

Opening as suddenly on the sea
As if there is a method in all this.

Liver has no black humor
A life has three four hours
In a liver to live its humour.

Three or more is not sure.
God is still evaluating data.
God has no yellow humour.

I am mixed up with a Neruda
In deep well of other beings.

My old moon drops in a well
As my single dream upholds

A pail dropped on its stillness,
With childhood’s moon there.

Boy monks are humming as bees
In the deep stones of a snow hill.

Lamas are teaching boy- monks
To smile the stone-hard way and

Not to ask more further or more.
To ask more is to seek more less.

We hold on horse backs for our life.
They take us ,where we hurl snows.

On bridge we met dog on a pantleg.
But we were afraid for bones in leg .

We shooed him off in superior fright
And the old bridge shook in laughter.

Five senses are country and soul
That see everything, include ears

And a beauty of liberating smells,
Skin ex-foliated and sporting red.

A heart is sensual as eyes break
Poet recalled and beauty sonnet.

(Reference is to a Dylan Thomas poem When all my
five and country senses see)

You have two faces, city,
like a Janus
One face on either side of
a rail track

Incoming train divides
you into two
A rain-breeze soothing
your sorrows.

But a smell of morning
milk packets
And buffaloes waiting
to be milked
On either of faces speak
the same story.

Your crows shall look across
sheets of fuzzy rain
At the outlines of the friends
visible on our roof
Wondering when wet trees
will stop shaking
To let them have their usual
evening get-together.

You have dreams of mirrors
that show
Big time visions of yourself,
in grand walks

It is lungis held by the hand
in street
That makes the world in the
street corner

And mongrel following you
by lake.
It is they who are literature
for you.