I'd like to pack my suitcase
For the night
And drift away
In the high sky.

I'd like to ask who are we or
Who am I
When the northern wind blows over the sea

I'd like to ask what we are going to be
Whether fifty or free,
I'd like to lie on the softest grass
Under the skies
For an eternity.

There are puddles near my house,
Puddles near my heart

You have got to be an artist
You have filled my life with art

I will sunshine you with love,
Don't leave me alone my lovely,

I will rest in peace
When I'll share an umbrella with you.

Can I share an umbrella with you?

Tell me my lovely,
I have hid my pain with failed attempts and perfumes.

There is no postman
For my himistu no letters

Secretly I fold the page into two halves
And neatly write about the trees and the stars,
Sometimes about berries and sprouts
Sometimes how you got lost in the crowd;

I have written my Himitsu no letters
And kept them folded in the hole between the walls,
I know you will never receive them.

Yet, I have written how much I love you,
Below them all.

The jute bag made an astonishing appearance as it
fell with apples on the ground,
It was Marque that Lorlei had found.

Spanish tales with foil and grief
had braved the tale of Lorlei and Marque,
The tomato juice from Marque's ears had flown to Lorlei's hidden letter
And poison that fish swim and ate,
Consumed by fisher men and people at the gate
It was a ball that determined their fate
Lorlei had gone and sung to Marque
They lay asleep with sense and sensibility
Beside each other,
On their marital bed.

I left an umbrella at the bus stop
The umbrella was yellow and grey
It had broad stripes on either sides
It was used during rain and a sunny day

The umbrella was left alone,
Along came a dog with a bone
And in the ardent summers of may
Beside the umbrella it lay;

A day later, A man came with his wife
She looked at the umbrella and thought it was pretty nice
They waited for the bus to arrive,
But the umbrella lay still at the side

It was one day when I came back again
And saw the umbrella held it's place,
It's handle was broke and filled with grease
It was filled with holes, yet stood with ease
It fell on the ground
When it was pushed by my little niece
My umbrella was abandoned again,
It had gone weary and with rusty chains.

Young Mohan was three by the time
Borders were made
And an angry facist peddler sung in disdain,
Sentiments were breached and so was time,
There were bloodsheds more often by the time he was nine;
In patriotic leu and an abundant of moral synecdoche
Religion, apathy, martyr meaning terrorism
Young Mohan was thrown
As a vendor who stole money
And saw women on screen,
The green had gone green
Humanity was a partake on films
Flimsy films and orange bandanas
Verbal stench ruining the hymn of jove,
Topsy turvy Independence naught,
Mohan had seen women with tops
And women without them,
He had seen them dressing with conch flowers delicate on their boudoir of black facade,
And he stared to what the Country had become
In the orange lights of Saree,
And the spit of beetle juice,
His country was sold.