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.

Wildflowers not Roses

Next time show me a wildflower near a stream
Roses in a vase do not sing the same song as me
No more I want to go to viewpoints and
stand in line to take pictures in front of monuments
I am happy to sit across a old railway station and watch passing trains

Never ever I want to go to water parks
Let me go back to river in my village to collect my paper boats back
No longer I want to dance in a concert in a daze
I am happy under a moonlit night in your assuring embrace

And in case I do not pick up phone or call often
May be I have gone back to write postcards and believe waiting is fun