Sitting before the white
screen, thinking-
what to write today.
Suddenly you will appear to
take a sweet revenge.

Proding the sensitivity,
you will not utter a single word.
I will start burning my-
paper boats on the banks of brows.
River dried, no water was
flowing from the dams of eyes.

Only the moon was watching me.
Tomorrow you will find a-
washed out body in dew of a
poem, half buried in red sands.

It still becomes relevant.
You pick up the remains of a saga
make a shrine of the god anonymous.