I marked the funeral pile of summer leaves,
The headless stumps and fireflie fluttering the wings,
The rustic spade captively stuck to the field.
I picked the spade and glided down the glittering rills
...
Almost every great one set off from the wood.
Although slipped off many times from the stiles,
The Faradays prepared through books.
Hitting golden knowledge between the hammer and suffering.
...
There is smile spelt on the page of aged face;
This face has seen the world in various page.
The tiny skull is a shelter to primordial brain-
The wisdom from the ancestral grace and plague.
...
The wood is quite except rustling and rasping
Of unknown feet trampling earthward dry leaves.
No, no, no, no, the visitors are parting,
From the market, earthward, to home beneath.
...
I'm Draconian in virtue and vices.
A time will come, my lady that I
Shall flood you in passion sweat
when riding through your shore
...
The chilling night and the damp wind
Would cause the palm frond swaying fingers
To rise beyond its horizon as though
It would pluck a star from the dome.
...
Just sit still and look beyond your vision,
Conscious or unconscious, grab the
Textures like pictures through recollection
And apply the mental surgery you conceived.
...
No trace of acquaintance
Till recent except the board and pad.
She blinked her seductive screen
With her framed hardware like a damsel,
...
Copious auctioners, for the highest bidders,
You will conceive pestles between your laps.
Your dried tuft reed of Medussa hair,
Cosmetic caskets, clawed fingers and perfumed air
...
It could be a bond of instinct
once in a year, uniting us
from hamlet heart, nook
and crannies on same field.
...