Her soft red lips
like Devi's kiss
The hope that nothing
can go amiss
Fare thee well
the anchor's daughter
Of locks of honey
And whistles wet without folly
Bliss of cardinal natures
The turbine's path
a Deadly fodder
not in wrath
But fields of nothing
The building waves
The cymbals clang
Softest strokes
Lightest touch
riveting to the fire's mass
Late we stay
the minds all in wander
Leave it now before it breaks
Leave it now before death consumes
In slickest red and father's doom
YOU ARE READING
March of the Flowers
PoetryOne by one, we march. We march. Our branches tired. Our leaves are wearied. March of the Flowers is a collection of poetry
