In the stark valley,
by wheezing winds,
eyes puckered,
hope, gone afar:

solitary peaks

snow-capped at
summit, rising,
parting the clouds,
for opal skies.

An aspiration.
A lighthouse.

The higher you go
The fall delivers a harder blow!

Children arguing aloud, celebrate
their momentary freedom from parents,
playtime sounds in the park
grow quick like huge  trees full of foliage;
in the middle of that dense green darkness
of every kind of sounds,
on a dilapidated bench, alone she sits
--a symbol, not  yet deciphered.
Her head is  thrown back,
profuse hair, hanging dark curtain,
behind which the sun sets.
From an open window across the busy road,
he watches everything in silence;
a solid rock in flood waters
that eschewed all thoughts.

Every evening I find him at the bus stop
Under the semi-dark shed
In posture meditative
As if he isn’t waiting for bus
But something more serious
Like god’s second coming!

When I greet him
He bows in ponderous nod
But not a word passes between us
Breaking his impenetrable aloofness!

I find his serenity alike the evening
Softly descending to lull the day’s noise
That he in perfect meditative poise
Let envelope his whole being
And it looks he isn’t waiting for bus

But god’s second coming!