Odd to stalk forlorn in darkness of a black hole,
and perforated shadows of deodars,
while pines with flying saucers manipulate masks fearsome,
and cool breeze drizzles poetry that is musical it is said.
In fogs of messy streets where sluts bluster,
in winters’ chilly hush, rhythmic verse pouring in,
in abundance on bosoms slushy before the weeping tot,
when one meanders without meaning
while in silent hisses exploring bosoms dry
in absurdity and murky walks without a fixed aim
but certain, for genuine Guru it was.