You once told me to become a starry night which would swivel on the canvas of van Gogh to celebrate the egregious darkness of the unlighted night ; but I became the mending wall of Frost who bloomed under the abdomen of deformities to push the boat out from some twitchy reveries.
You once told me to become a yellow gulmohar which would phantasize the poetries of Tagore while inlaying on the umbrageous zephyr and infested patina ; but I became a withered parijat neither belonged to the tree nor belonged to the soil but I unclasped the clouded lapland of an unclouded poet.
You once told me about a prophet who prophesied of the phantasmagorical catastrophe while standing in the grotty gallery of havocs arriving one after another in this luminous land of luxury and austerity. Just when skeleton bodies will finish most of the lilies and defile the extensive sea and animals will crawl in their knees while humans will ask for next breathe .
And maybe the time isn't far away. It's waiting outside the Halloween door Or maybe for the next elections to cease . As the Gaia is tortured for centuries and she can't bare one more dried sea, and the flee of her favourite trees...