In the days of the reckoned ways,
and when the clouds were just too mute.
The happiness was too loud, yes, it was loud.
All the forthcoming cries become acute.
The peace, the pain, the dusty screams,
all mixed up, dropping each to just each.
To all the corners, red veins could take.
To all the numb places, it’ll reach.
And what for has this been the void,
so gray and not green for a while.
That ground is not even leguminous.
Worth the grayness, worth that smile.
Here in the woods, the ink expounds all.
There cries to the heart, it’ll call.
New Delhi, India