The voice which my throat hurled, I don’t know what happened to it.
Whether the sky swallowed it, or it changed into a bird and flew away.

But my fancy keeps floating like a boat around the islands of flowers,
The azure continents of the skies and, the archipelagos of stars in search
Of it. To me that search is enough.

The sky is not an arid desert of vacuum; it is the nest of the winged
Singers called birds. It is the hypnotic city, where the wind constantly works on
The architecture of clouds.

For this prisoner of pitiless life, that little rag of sky,
Fluttering beyond the iron bars is enough.
That fistful of evening which stares at me from beyond
Those clusters of trees-is enough

That little slice of Blue Ocean, whose eyes keep looking at me,
Standing on tiptoe from behind the pearly sand dunes;
beyond the cashew nut gardens- is enough

That particle of desire which keeps whispering
in some remote corner of the heart is enough-
- Seshendra Sharma
http://seshendrasharma.weebly.com