The butterfly surveyors
Running in the meadows
Counting the flying colors
I caught few
They slipped from my hold
Imprinting their dust on my pointing, middle and Thumb fingers.
Unknowingly I rubbed my nose
My Desires attire transformed as clown
A soulful lust robustly danced and flew
All along with them
My foot prints
Decorated a gratitude smile
On earths marquee
- - - -
(10-10-13)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem