We can go Where there is snow, And no one can know Us. I will go there Wth a projection of you, Where there is snow, And no one can know Us. Your projection and me Will dance in my
Tickling. These are not tears, Just tickling in my stomach, Or moths in my heart, Or whatever. But not tears. They look like water drops, And taste salty as they drip, Across my cheeks and lips But these ain’t tears.
Home Shines far out In the horizon, Beyond the trees, And behind these Light bulbs. It streams through the wind In locked packets of hope. Like those mountains in The distance, It’s unreachable, Unattainable. It’s a state. It’s moments. It’s
So yesterday when you slept Of a tired and bleeding soul, I missed you. Like the plain Missing the rain, The unwanted years Missing the point, The broken car Missing the headlight, The annual diary Missing the smell of ink,
Let the night pass, For the day will be kinder, And fast. Let the night pass. Choice. It’s an illusion. A great one at that. The variables that define our lives have already been rolled out. And hence we are
The desert is the same everywhere. In Africa you find the same sand grains and wind and the sky, which one can find in Asia. In fact, it’s all one big system. The wind that started in the Pacific may
Confusions are like onions: I have to peel the layers, And cry a few unfeeling tears, And then peel , A few more; Till I find myself Standing in the middle of a round maze, Locked by spiral paths and