Pramod Khilery (India)

Before the boat reaches the shore
It has to glean all the drops
That sea sprinkled on it, alive or dead.
Before the sea retires to tranquility
It has to look into the eye of littoral sand
And talk something euphonious.
To live in such illusions
At the mercy of those raptors
Who think they rule the times
And own every ounce of it
Is like making a knoll wear the green
Right before the fury of the sun.