Not a starlit sky,

You a man of wood and soil,

Of virility and domesticity – 

Have rejuvenating supplies of milk and eggs.

You don’t find


In my tavern

Where unresting spirits hover tirelessly.

The ashes 

Of their mortal bodies

Want nourishment –


Spring and bloom,

Smiles and tears,

Milk and eggs.

They follow you till your bed

And hide under your pillow,

Behind your mirror,

In your closet,

In the creases of your cotton shirt 

Till you sweat.



Your saliva covers my skin
It dries and joins my body
Your eyes were the like of a meditating saint
Your tongue pushing the inside of my mouth
screams something incorrigible,
devoid of logic;
The fragrance of you lingers on my skin.
The exhausting labour of a metro
Screens your saintly eyes,
Unsettles my rest.


When I wake up
Beside your skin,
When I draw on your brown texture
You close your eyes
Dipping into a deep universe of senses
In a moment

– kept aside,
covered with care.