Poetry

It was like homecoming of 
timber rattle snake. 
A bit jarring. 
 
Signs were acquitted, 
when the summer becomes 
sensuous at dusk. 
 
I start collecting the colors 
from sky. The night was 
moving behind the moon- 
 
like a concubine, in black 
skirt. Amidst the gray clouds 
a green man was laughing. 
 
The death’s translation 
was simple. Nobody will 
attend the funeral of sun.