A heap of dust, lusterless and pale
A poem made, bound by the fantasy of choosing.
Full red lips, breast, curls
Full round breasts, body tender as a bud
Her face is like moon
Yesterday I saw that lovely woman.
You’ll spend thousands in gold on this splendid sari
It was very first night, let the Love God aim his arrows
You’re a drop of water on the lotus leaf,
It happens, it happens.
I can make poems, Music and Poetry
In broad daylight, I was born for poetry,
The beauties of a poem are best known
Condemn me Creator,
Go to hell, damned Creator.
In the old days, Morning after churning oceans,
My eyes look away in shame,
Not entirely hidden, No ornaments adorn,
Not even God can save.
I know what you’re after
I sang of learning, and there was nothing.
Is poetry a surface sheen?
Now is the time,
People with no taste for good poetry
Travel to an alien land.
The moon rests his head in the lap of the Western sky
Pressured by the hips from below
The whiff of jasmine, she comes down sickened
Whimpering wonderful whatevers.
Who needs a basketful of glittering stones?
Words make the gods give an answer.
Stronger even than the bond
You’re the best of all my friends, which is why.