I ache to know so well to tell you,
I am not trying to improve you
or preach conversion to you,
might I just pick your pocket
and sell your own watch to you.
All memory is an illusion,
two sides of a snake that swims
mimicking the merits acquired by
an altostratus cloud undulant,
interwoven sky of vast emptiness
obliterated waves lateral to the gravity
that dances above your horizontal eyes
and perpendicular nose.
As I enquire intimately and inescapably,
lovely longing eyes piercing through you,
disown your own power of virtuous to
sleep on sacred cushions laid for
strangers who do not belong to the family.
Cinches of kaliyuga broken into white
lotus buds, possessed themselves of
priceless movements cagey in anticlockwise
or clockwise waters.
Pulses of heart that happen to you,
origins of flowers unknown even to
the God of spring himself,
well know, it is not what you think is you.
Balloons floating in ushering skies
as faithful as few women serving
their husbands without slightest
chances of selfish excitements.
All good things have always come
from other, though in this precarious epoch,
anybody trying to be virtuous is merely
under a sense of guilt.
Above all human conventions,
liberation is the lone bronzed figure
demolished by tidal waves
to show multitudes of present
lived in catastrophic past and future
fooled by presiding images of boundless
attachments and expectations.