Hardik Vaidya (26 Dec 1969, yet to kick the bucket. / Mahuva, Gujarat, India.)

When I immerse in your poetry.
I drown of envy.
The Artic's cold and the Sun's merry gold,
Are molten together in a solid crystal,
Which shines through your soul.
If I were god,
I would take your face in my shrivelled palms,
Kiss your forehead,
Turn you into a tiny green frond,
Some where in the middle of Amazon,
The dew drops would form on your vast expanse,
The spring would then erupt from the Artic calm.