I wake up now and then , mystic , crescents of the dark world slumbering in my blood
I remember standing in the pink shade of a flower and rousing a melody
I sit before heroic wave of a sea, and sculpture a chunk of wind into a storm
I lean against a moon who grows adding one crescent each day to itself
And I invoke the angel of moonlight
The silver of my soul drowns the leafy branches in waters of dreams
I do not know where I stand, because the feet of memory float in the mazes of undecipherable past.
Even all birds in the air combined, cannot compete with my song, grafted in my throat by the mermaids of artic seas
My song, the nomadic song of the stock, has no words but only melodies; gathered rolling over tongues and countries and peoples – drinking in any river, breathing the air of every land
Crushing grammar but picking up rhymes
My song has no words but music; in the childlike shadows of my wordless words, the stars of the sky come to rest
The agitations of countries and nations don not step in there.
But only soft and fluffy red wolves, children like supple dough of silver, birds which dye their feathers in the crimson of sunsets –
Wander about in the lands of those shadows – Gentle seasons paint golden sunshine to the waists of hills
Those who gulped my words are munching the country like a piece of sugarcane. They have donned frizzy beards as the peninsulas of genius!
While I here, keep evolving, to change into a song, released from time and space; then into a voice, unchained from the word. And then into a memory, gliding out of the voice to travel forever into the horizons
Those who label names to stars and constellations , tear them from the sky and push them into pages of old scriptures , they cannot realise that to the soul which is on a journey into a dream , the word is a noise and the book is just a paper
And as the sun was rising even before my dream had ended a many hued tiny dew drop saved my setting life