Little stones carved with My thoughts ,
that pen moving so easily
What did it say then
what will it say now
I need to be gone and think of where I will end
Those burning ghats of yore
smoke from the pure rising in the morning sun,
Just as when daybreak heralded My entry,
so will those climes and times hark the end
yet what of the times in between
those tall trees called flame of the forest
as the flowers from afar
make the forest look afire
did any rush to put that out
I wonder
and yet
when one is afire
so many dampen the ideas and quell the desires
is control
always a good thing
Maybe sometimes we need to lose
all control
revert to what We once were
primal and primeval
and then will the lives soar again
