The first sharp ray

rips the curtain apart.

The mango tree has blossomed.

A heady fragrance,

a hint of gold in the midst of green.

The sounds invade the world around.

A woodpecker is frantically busy.

chiselling away with speed

at the bark of the peepul tree.

My heart, inhale the world coming to life.

The smouldering has ceased.

The morning has transformed the fumes

into a crisp air, the aroma of summer wind.

This small hour stands still

like a child waiting to be hugged back in love

 Alone on this windy day

between pain and prayers,

held between oasis and mirage

the boat sways.

Seeking a landing space

beyond the space of poetry. .

It's the season of mangoes

outside the window,

not yet ripe,

the raw smell haunts.

Dreams within dreams 

I have lived in them long.

Between them passed the years ,

pointing always to a goal.

Were it not for what existed

all along the way, despite the lure,

something like the scent of the unripe mango,

I would have lost the way.

Sad, that life does not move like poetry

a ticketless travel on unspecified roads

to embark any day, and to disembark with no regret.

 A wine buried  under the earth,

a passion locked;

and the key thrown away in the sea.

God was napping when He drew the road-map.

Taking the wrong turn 

I wandered in the dark.

With regret in heart

I searched for the key.

A wine that lay under earth has ripened

I am dizzy.

The lost time is lost

The orchards got baked and burnt

Out there the sky is aglow.

The first ray has ripped apart

the curtain has flown

The wind enters.

The unending road.

I hate to go to bed.

Lying on my back 

warming the bed

It 's a furnace now.