Monday, February 13, 2012


Before the moment disappears
The words somehow appear
To string the moon, to the tree,
To the kite, to something breaking free;
Before the feet turn away
The eyes have spoken and the smiles stay
On the lips like a dessert flavour
That can be savoured even light years after;
Before the lamp is lit without murmur
Yet again before the destroyer
Travelling from one sleepless city to another
Yesterday's prayers beg for an answer;
The kite doesn't belong in the tree
It is kin to something that wants to break free.

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