The fairies of chaitra
lie on the un–wrinkled bed
with their backside up  

in the hearsay of the air
once the woods of tamarisks
once the hill of paraffin

it appears there is no interruption
to this circus

the toy-telephones
hang from the cloud to cloud

from that carnival
take birth many kanthali-champa

the surgeon comes calmly
to the secret of darning

all localities are totally maddened
by the flow tide of the  exudation

observing all those happenings
the half-broken wave
does awake on the sofa-set

My poems are painful to me
The words I collect are
embers of her memories
She burnt me like
wildfire of Chaitra
I liked the fire better
The embers, not really.
Just this poem.

~.                                          
Seriously
When it's said
  some words can haunt & pierce
deeper, sharper and more brutal than a blade
~the pallid blood flows 24/7 from your vein
    driving your mind to madness to pain.
~~
That cut, Gothic & red
   an open, hemorrhagic gate
never heals, never fades.
  And the pain
it will remain
  it will remain
~
Always
&
Forever
&
  Permanently

The end.
~~
                         Chaitra 2081