Funambulist

An Acrobat moves on a rope
Like a century-old art hung in a somber museum
Life is a question of proportion; pay attention

Inside her head, thoughts form in unknown alphabets
Like shipwrecked hearts dive into azure evenings
or stones were thrown into a silent lake

Summer lightning
A sad breeze passing through Asoka trees
Sentiments balance on the golden silence of wings

You who ache for the calmness of a second
And yet hurry off on a rope for a change
Remember

Those words are only true, which do not insist on meaning.