Poetry

Walk with me, till moon rises
on the griefs of the dark,
and the tongue tastes the pain of centuries.

On the erected dome
when the golden leaves start a flame
which throws up an image of a prophet.

My nightingale was giving a call
of a very sad tune, on the death of peacocks -
but for the poisoned feed, they were dancing.

A green pride has no ambition now,
roses were wilting.
Fever was rising in the roots.

Do not give it to me, my award.
Could I have shut up like a fame
when my house was being ransacked?