Black walls, yellow sands

pale sea, shattering waves—

pouring water, shrivelled rain: the dusters now remain

in snow flicker, we're born in flesh

flair in pain, edging with pale lilies—

He, laying down in grieving cane.

The slow wind flows, over the towers

of city, opening thousand gates—

One bypass the street of gleaming sad,

One remain in hunger so bad,

Incoherently remembered vague dreams

of a life we came from, "Ah! Tragic story

of sealed lips!"

Growing tired, he turned aside at last—

"Why didn't you come before?"

Green eyes moisten, dry leaves faded

"We turn, we turn until the sea ends

in bright cage and I, a wanderer of dreams

doesn't stay," she whispered.

We flow to the east, we reach to the west,

One of them, sings to the street—

We listen to his ardent gleam,

Dreams we follow, finally heal in broken cassettes

The rain seethes in a quiet shower—

Like his ghostly music to chuck him down.

. . .

Following up — part (iv)