A garden where flower blooms,

A tree, standing before the storm

coming, the tweeting of birds continue

with the gunshots.

In the world with less than more

to hide and seek, the muffled hearing

goes deaf, so the disoriented years

become numberless.

He walks with his distress,

He walks, walking the talk of forlorn

footsteps, vanished in foggy memories.

The flowers shake, bloom in vain

the prints of hearts— grated with

flying storm, a little bit salty,

a little far from home.

The train whistle down for the last stop,

"Where will you go?"

Dust, blowing over the dark figure

sitting with a lazy glance,

He muses, "It's not dark yet.

The fire shots, gonna bust the last line.

I shall stop— I shall, the moment orange

skies lurk in smokes."

Like nothing in the daylight,

the trees bow down to the darting bird.

— 4th June, 2024.