Even a donkey knows well
what the skin is
nothing but simply the cover to make tight
flesh and blood together encircling bones
...
nice your touch that touches my nice
morning aflame blows serene at shrine
nice your choice of feathering the fathom
height beyond high ever clinging the clinks
...
practicality ignites futile dodges
impracticality arbitrates soul to high
wide emancipation pledges the life
to feel to fly where none gone before
...
a dark avenue bordered by trees
a man walking on the asphalt alone
nearing an art village ancient
only a horse somewhere
...
saddles are broken
rein unbound
riding inevitable
...
haunted by a word from the very morning
as soon as morning opens its door to give us birth again
a word follows my nail tips, my tongue tips, my minor fracture
in the left leg little finger where a pain of wound
...
Pranab k c
13/09/2011
Lines are lost from the morning page
...
Talk less and stand quiet
Your lamentation has lost its viability
And when you tried much to touch
I was with your touch
...
Winter appears again
With its lost merit
Reviving again
Its high passion
...
above a sky so lovely yet
a sky no longer any property owned
by any lunatic emperor
...