My Aurora
Per se,
I remain silent
to the plain trunk of Ginkgo
with etched bark of sere serenity.
I uttered—
“Oh my Gosh!
my feet never feel a tavern
Though my lips to feel liquor
I’m drunk after glaring an Annabel Lee.
……..Then I muttered—
She must be a Persian tapestry
of glitz and past pure pearls.
But I take a lead
to plead–
Please let me peep
Into the flourishing inks of Saadi, if not!
to Tagore or slipped
to the greasy inks of Rumi for recapitulations
