The breeze floats beyond the gilt
and whispers interludes that spread nought
when you , unawares, seep in her blushing ambiguities
or his daunting antinomies of thought. Listen as they speak.
That the blue is the same for the calm and the storm and the shunya is still the same you mock at to
build your barn and your crematorium.
You discard philosophies in your sleep. He wakes up glum in his walk and knows not the real, the sphota and the cit. She promises there is more to it.
She seeks through flags and banners, scurries through absurd corners of her street , she trembles through
the writhing of the mind, of fleeting consciousness and her blue feet