a tale of hunting

do
suppose
that the soil calls you

by
a whistling sound
made by contracting its lips

in repeated spell of weeping
the oscillation of leaves forgets
all amazement
to get on board the train of magnolia

who would deny
such a blank cheque
from the sunshine

the green land of slumber
gives you also
a colourful welcome

to comply with the direction of the clouds
the dialogues start in a new format

could the veteran bureaucrats
ever trace it

hand-bag shakes off so much fun

and that fuming-lad from his blue
let suspended in the air
the sound of conch-shell
knitted in a white thread

hi coral-deer
do you too
have the same wish

then for you dear lady
till now
comes out from the dictionary
a torn tale of disappearance