In the meadow of separation, dreams bloom
like tulips in the eyes of The Buddha, so often the artists paint!
At every stroke of an hour a choked hum remains
in all the peace and happiness projected in a living space.
An unknown wind catches me off guard
at a time when thoughts build bridges
between my being, nonbeing and a halogen-lit street that stares at my bedroom window,
with a dense fluttering imprisoned in surmise.
Each night, sleeplessness comes with a crimson embrace
the shapeless phantoms bleed in the mind,
breeding a nostalgia of weightless smell,
an amalgamation of many evanesced alfresco, sleeping in the thoughts amiss.