Leaves that rustle in the shadows
this moonlit night, silent, sleeping
with the mynas on those distant trees,
let them whisper to the winds
this mortal moment: rest, rest on my
shoulder, creeper-like, smile just
that little my heart shudders;
All the world now silent, sleeping
as mist settles, obscuring thoughts
this heavy winter heaving in sighs,
to part or not this is the question, veil:
little, just a quiver, when waves recede

Ancient this mistletoe, dug deep
into the heart of time,
Shadows of the dagger ******
into wet sands, shining silver handle
Ever-closing guillotine of the minute-hand
ticking closer to the neck-line
Mini-Babel rising triumphant a banner
of rebellious spirit run aground
Treachery of the trickster exploiting
the fissures in the fistful of sand
that fertile febrile mass of unknown
possibilities, harbouring seedlings of hope
and future buds of fragrant roses of love.

There is a chorus rising, chiming in the wind
chant for chant, a contest of emotions
yet when the hour calls, let me withhold,
for thus, untouched the petal blooms,
past shadows of dancing fish.