After the puppet show,
the nest was calling.
Indeed, the leaves held the slanted light
expanding the shade snared on branches,
of dancing ash, of almond eyes.
Why the hangman was waiting
for the echo? The river was calling.
Was this the inheritance of less
talent of pugmarks, which strayed
into the city of abused words?
The book was calling?
After birth there was no death of my
rhyme. The flesh has gone, only
the burning bones are lying
on bed of roses.
Submitted by Satish Verma.