Creatures of the gone world walk,
In measured meters, by dark streams
Flowing with the city’s vulgar sins.
Thinking poems are autumn-falling
In criss-cross patches of golden sun,
Actually these are pallid ghosts
Pulled out of unlit eastern skies
Laughing poems feel like poems
On the grassy mounds, children
Mimicking toothless laughter, hiding
Lots of death-fear knotted around
Approaching birthdays in jitters.
Silver manes falling on grey scarves,
They laugh their guts out, ha ha,
In the club of morning laughter
On grassy mounds in sunlit parks.
Yellowed skulls hiding in monkey-hoods
Hardly hear the world’s laughter.