It could be just an agitation in the mind
That devoured the words unknowingly;
Words that smouldered in the stumbling heart.
Or it could be the wailing of the shivering soul
In the wind of a winter sowing silence around.
Our lingua franca is so rich with the many beautiful
Words, if they are unsaid or unuttered.
What will be the colour of the feather, falling down
In the recess of a dream and reality?
At the inception, it will be flamboyant with
All the seven colours of the spectrum;
Then fading and blanching into
Disgusting grey, and finally
Into the copper colour of age old brass vessels’
Patina, where most of the time, love takes
Its toll of death finally, and walk away.
So, my dear, swallow your words you desire to utter,
Let the wine of tender love give crimson
Hue to the starving innards of my body,
And intensive sweetness to my scorching lips
Together with a benevolent touch on
My pale emaciated arms.