Oh Sun! how harsh,
thy scorch on my skull.
Thy tongue on my body
sending a burning sensation
that runs from my hair strands,
to the tip of my toe

Oh Sun! How harsh
thy  kiss on my skin.
Pity spattered it did before your arrival.
You  licked every wet, set up a burn fire that seized the air.
Stopping the tree's dancing festival inadvertently.
Hand scribbled air oozes out chaos.
What kind of guest discomforts  his host?

Every eve of my birth, the aura is that of death. For me to be haunted or for me to taunted. These questions I ask myself. Did death sense I would forget in a hurry, how he stole a gem?
Every eve of my birth the aura is that of death. Do I deem it fit to use my blood, would it be enough to ink my paean, could it be enough to relief my pain? The grips was lost after a fierce ruck, then he went home with his rare loot.
Every eve of my birth the aura is that of death. The eve of my separates life and death.

Fly birds fly, fly with joy.
Looking out from Windows, gazing at the golden sunrise;
these flock of beauties caught my attention, from my bed.
Then come envy and pity.
While I'm caged for my safety,
they flew with joy. Thought of
nature struck me.

Fly birds fly, fly with joy.
Never have I had a joy
Accompanied with pity and a touch of empathy.
In Few days of being in lockdown
I envied and wished I were these free birds.
Have they been wishing to be free, while we caged them?