Poetry

It was a fascinating night
like albino children playing in park.
I was gazing at sky.

The years have gone by one by one.
I am still walking on dead leaves
refusing the fruits.
This was me, no urge, no need,
the leather worn out but
feet are intact.

A continous civil war among the windows
suffers the grace. Stupidities of house.

You collect the garbage whole life
and when time comes to depart,
make a bonfire of your winnings.
We are ageing like wall paper
and talking to doors. The guest
is coming at last.