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The red sun has made way
For a blushing moon.
The caring flies have changed
To the half-worried faces
Peeping through the
Circular window over me.
The noise has been devoured
By a painful hush.
Transition,
From failure to futility,
From obscurity to oblivion.
The sigh of fallen leaves,
And the smell of sweated bra -
Written on my face.
The moon-burnt poem,
And the roses
Bathed in your blood.
The fireflies and
The yellow smell of wild flowers.
The winter of oranges
The winter of dreams
And I will go on
Alone.
The moon
The faces, pretending hard
To look worried
And the silence
(The treasure is still mine)
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Raja
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