A timeless talk in the winter den,

As near as snow melts, the paradise

of white valley turn on to lift and grip.

There’s not much to talk, one is left—

one is stone-gold, tugged at the core

so deep, she noticed nothing in return.

Only the palpable balls, trailing, rolling

in the white ground.

“Stop growing flowers, it’s only in vain.”

She smiles, leaving them to retort.

If they can have peace with chatted

snarky gaze, pick the flies from flying

into measuring stone walls.

They don’t crash, only they seek/

search, so she lets them to bicker

to hide, some death stars only

flicker, if you don’t notice—

it doesn’t exist.

much like flowers, much like the storm

coming to shuffle in your calloused

palm, trees whistle to tease her gaze,

she swats their hands in a mere whisper stare.

So she didn’t compare mars and earth,

where she can breath a sigh to live,

leave the house in the starboard,

a flying car to give her wings,

she only picks up the fanned flowers,

from the muddy water, after rain smell

gushing the fragrance,

in and out.

She dashed out in the morning,

without any hope or sin,

the world only needs spin of words—

Yet with no gap, only holes in between

The earth trickled down with its shot.

Hope aims in the future plants,

lives lie with rusted dew,

in the corner, a body lies in dust.

— 11th June, 2024.