The Line Of Rains

from the utterance of the clouds
I can understand now
there is no particular season
which may be called as rainy

in any time those weak-days
may be drenched
the water-mark of the candles
may exist after the sun rises

now whether it was a wrong way or a wrong going
this debate is still on

you put the age over my shoulders
but I can’t roar so much why
my anger is no more a child
if the yellow colour means
the disappearance of whiteness
from the locked-teeth
then the bird will fly
with its beaks getting experienced

when all one around here
wants to be the seed of the intellectual grass
how much relevant is such a mute lamp-post

the morning of the clouds awakes
touching the line of rains
another giant night keeps waiting
in the darkness of the other

that delta rises in the secret water of the river
where with the songs of the birds
the hot coffee acquires the lips

the hands are as if like very known creepers
the tree is in search for a brown body
to which if a marriage could be organised
the thought of the disturbed walls also disappears

I am sitting here in this shadow-hell
unfurling a paper on the strong storm

before night comes keep your face up
from the silky letter
and let me see you

I would not go to that fabrics again

of late I have turned into stone by heavy rain-fall
now heat is required in equal measure
for which henceforth
I have to become loser in every game

afterwards with my dusts
this paper will fly away

you recreate me with a new fever

by murari sinha

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