Soon we went about the poet’s business in the wooded paths of human history trying to tread softly on delicate hearts in some ancient history of poetry kind.
We saw the turquoise tourist bracelets glass bangles that clinked in poet’s story and the shadows they cast on brown faces. It was gold evening always and sun set.
The mountains sat there immutable and blue .Their egos went home in a white cloud.Our silken pajamas were to come back from roof up where they were drying. In meantime we had to whisper softly our cumulative secrets into our winters
Beyond the parapet sparrows hopped chirping incessantly to a morning sun as if they were ripe and golden wheat that waved heads softly in grass breeze.
Our temples were soft in the outlines of pagodas where they scraped the sky ignoring the wind. As we looked up at the top of God’s golden pillar we looked softly at the contours of our own history. Everything came home as if it was in our mother where it had happened, in our beginnings in her.
The Morning is Just a Dream 