Poetry
It was a mid-day morn A man on terrace With few drapes worn, Just out of bath To repeat those prayers Daily sworn. With folded arms he was standing, Facing the Sun He was praying. What could be seen Was him and the star An invisible beam joining.
February 1, 2003
Lyres
You feel the tender should, But it does not when it could. You plan its wean route, It moves not in refute. Peeping through your own eyes, The dream is of wisps of cloud. With wrinkled skins, Feels that things never work out.
October 6, 2002