Riding over a song, I play my notes on the strings
Of your nights; so that after me you may
Graft my dreams into your eyes.
It is not oil; it is my blood that your lamp gives as light
Under which your books blossom meanings-
On my page I place an ocean, on that ocean I place a boat,
And then I blow a storm over the scene
And becoming a poem and wait
To see to what shores it will be washed off.
Does it touch the coast-line of time where the
Skeletons of life lie crucified in the geological rocks?

I feed the pages with nutritious dreams and grow
Their muscles to face dreadful adventure.
Into the windows of my paper, flocks of thoughts flew into perch,
Carrying on their tiny wings the massive shapes
of the young Palaeolithic world.

The evening sky fell like a tattered rag on ruins of the world-
Evening has hidden its face in the lap of the streams.
A beauty was bathing in the mirror, features
of some inarticulate lines were hovering over her lips,
and I was tuning my poems, desiring to bathe in that heart,
each souls is a melody, if we can hear.

I want to open a workshop of the flying craft of imagination,
Of phantasy arranging on the walls the wings of birds,
The lines of poems, the skeletons of musical instruments, the limbs
Of Guernica and many others;
I shall go back to my home in the worlds of stars,
Today my effort is only to change my residence from the earth to the sky-
- Seshendra Sharma