On a fine Sunday morning
I sat with my pen...

Slides from the projection of life
Child, man and than a senile...

A traveller
Was not a reveler...

As the silky clouds trespasses
and caresses through the head of the hills...

Human behaviour crossed the harrowed path
No kindness...

Tied with a string
Like a puppet...

Quiet and awake
Listening the voice from a distance...

Lying senseless on the bed
My mind race away...

Sometimes! Iam confused
whether to run or hide...

There's the laughter and a far cry
Soul confusing ! the air is not right...

Prude wind infiltrating
Casting the corners of hall...

There's a sense of loneliness in air
Do you feel...