A three-day-long rain from the east—
an terminable talking, talking
of no consequence—patter, patter, patter.
Hand in hand little winds
blow the thin streams aslant.
Warm.  Distance cut off.  Seclusion.
A few passers-by, drawn in upon themselves,
hurry from one place to another.
Winds of the white poppy! there is no escape!—
An interminable talking, talking,
talking . . .it has happened before.
Backward, backward, backward.

You should come with a warning sign,
a detailed prequel to destruction.

Pollen on your lips,
a bee in search of it,
I usurp it, get more
than what I asked for.

ഈ തേനീച്ച കൊതിച്ചതിലേറെ

നിൻ ചുണ്ടിലെ   പരാഗം
തേടിയെത്തി തേനീച്ച ഞാൻ
കവർന്നതു ഞാൻ  നുകരവേ
കൊതിച്ചതിലെറെ ത്തന്നു നീ

i wish history really did
repeat itself
because i badly
want you to happen to me
again

Kiss the girl whose hair
is piled atop her head,
like her thoughts;
tumbling down in bundles of curls
as they overflow.

Kiss the girl who drags you out
from beneath awnings &
makes you face the rain,
while she dances fearlessly
in a soaked, diaphanous sundress.

Kiss the girl who insists on
preparing you tea &
pouring it in your presence;
inviting you to witness
the intimacy of simple ceremony.

Kiss the girl who breaks
the stillness of occupied space
to reach out & encompass your hand;
seeking the sensation of your being
to comfort her through silent moments.

Kiss the girl who takes
up into her arms
your scattered inclinations & obsessions;
teaching herself to love & nurture them
as if they were her own.

Kiss the girl who envelops you
with her sultry sentiments &
provokes you with her precocious intellect,
leading you to question
all concrete belief.

Kiss the girl whose
very existence embraces you
like a contented sigh or the kiss of sunshine
one might play beneath
on a lazy Sunday afternoon.

Kiss that girl & kiss her deeply,
& with considerable intensity;
as if to break the seal between your lips
would shatter her
into a thousand pieces.

& do not let her go.

Bright blue eyes of youth,
for who do you search?

She is a man,in the blood stream,
gushing within her veins.
He acts her woman, willingly,
and he likes it every bit.
Together they create by chance,
a tumultuous ****** history,
never before seen, perhaps.
This subversion remains a secret,
with a meaning, on which
they never ever bothered.
A mighty cyclone, she transforms
that uproots structures monumental
if she really wants to trample everything.
He is a prankster wind,that love
billowing saplings; ripe rice as well.
Hovering on air, over land and water,
tumbling together, exploring depths,
they create mysterious wind patterns,
that add to the folk lore and myth.

In love, there is a sacrifice:
Your happiness for your companion's happiness.
What they enjoy may not make you happy...
But isn't it worth seeing eyes light up?
Smiles stretch across cheeks?
Shoulders rise in anticipation?
*A thousand times *yes.