No horse to ride on
No jacket to cover-
the bare skin shivers
no blanket to
go miles before sleep,
Myriad Frosts
weep their fate
Under the smog
horizons shrink
to things miniature
Hunger, Shelter and Clothes.
Inches become unthinkable,
miles to go-
sounds ridiculous.
Clouds across the speechless sky.
Written on heartWith indelible pink alphabetsEternal.
A paradise turns into Hell.
Victimizing innocence and tenderness.
on a wintered old ox.
afraid of numbersafraid of its own echoNobody seems to seekThe path of enlightenment,The era of the exalted Buddha,Nirvana or salvation fromThe cycle of Karmic bondages.But the number of timesThey visited the shrinesor offered homageunder media coveragealone counts.
