Sun bereft sky.
Capriconian fogs.
Thick fogs.
Me, broken wings.
Horizontal heights.
Hopes of Persistent surfs.
Nest. Wings. Sky.
Nest. Wings. Fly.
No cobwebs of desire.
Before it webs, fog melts.
Sun is up.
No quilt guilts either.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
So abstract thoughts......how these generate........real mysticism..