Poetry

After euthanasia,
I was conversing with a ghost.

Foam-born, he
wanted to shrink in a ring.

To cause harm―
a knife, apologizes,
for playing with fire.

That is the life,
of a mortal― to keep his
god, as a prisoner
of books.

And yet, you are called
a great warrior of words.

In your prime flight,
when the sun is setting,
you want to drop dead
like a sparrow, on eternal greenness
of silence.

The horses run in full alacrity.