When directors are many

Of my tears,The living lettersOf my blood.You areThe blue alphabetsOf the paper boat,That floats onThe fluids of passion,The wave of fusionOr our carnal desire,On the ocean of time,Under the yellow skyOf our separation.

Earth is round for them.

To live and let live.

Of vermilion paintOn widow’s deserted forehead.Humming-song.

I did not knowtill I was a manin the eyes ofa beautiful girl.Till that daythere were seasonssix in number,There were ample emptinessand a sense ofvoid blankness all aroundmy heart’s chamber.I never knewthere would beso much joy,so much bliss,so much content,so much fulfillmentin being possessed,in being adored,in being cared orbeing cherished-at least untilthis day,the day I…

Ocean is the bottom line.