It must have been yellow
But I saw blue
A trick of mind, of eyes perhaps
A chest of treasure my heart recalled
But my mind saw the sea
My eyes caught sight of hyacinth
My days are filled with doubts
Leading me to walls of auspicious delay
Friends of sky safeguard my freedom
Silver mysteries kick-start my rhythm
Where to go, what to do
I do not know till the moment arrives
I'm an archer in the midst of targets
But I wouldn't shoot without bets
Apples, oranges, strawberries
Make unconventional wines
Blue jays, cardinals, hawks
Carriers of lofty signs
My mistakes are breaks
Among fast-moving flock of exactitude
My horse is wary of the right roads
Afraid of skidding across the courts
Whose lips should I read
And how should I read them
Manners hidden between the lips?
Tenseness, directness, amusement
Or just pure nonsense
I will not be correct in my solution
For the lips are moved
By unseen masters
Controlling the moment's evolution
Sureness, Sureness you are a fraud
Authenticating my display of doubt.

We climb the Koro hill.

Forty years and still ascending
gives a good feel.

We stand under a Madhuca tree
blossoming in March heat and rain.

From the hilltop
the valley down below
looks dreamy grey.

We've greyed and graded
past full bloom.

In the wafting fragrance of Madhuca
we pray to hold on
for some more.

How did the first poet come about
Which feathered friend
Unlatched his tongue
Pitching his wits to sky of views
To detect fire of flowers
To discern the link of above and below
To reflect on drift of words
To visit invisible nations
To conceal his creative nucleus.

Before the transformation
He must have been an ordinary man
With sleepy ears and shrouded eyes
Mundane like the face of afternoon
Whether by chance or divine decree
He was crowned by feathers of Simurgh
And given a plot of sky to wander
To sing of morning and of night
To sing of colors, of trees, of flight of birds
Of taste of wine, of berries, of hazelnut
To sing of wings of life
To relieve the pain of confinement
To reveal the crack of cage
To become paragon of originality
To settle in heaven of finesse
And brandish hell at the oppressor.

Don't scowl or frown-
be prepared to be let down
life is a Darwinian jungle
its keyword is: SURVIVAL!

His colloquy, vintage, rich and bold
Unveiling nuances, young and old
Subtleties dance, like fireflies at night
Whispered innuendos, a gentle, sweet delight

His flavor, a lingering caress
Savoring bliss, in each
tender address
In this sensory waltz, entwined
A delicate balance of taste and design

Where words become wine,
and wine becomes art
Relentless aftertaste, a deliberate
imprint on the heart