The night is on. The ac blurs. The silence overwhelms. Like the eye contacts of strange lovers in a gathering, now lost.
The air of Delhi is replete with elections and poison. The codes are poisoned. The night is pure, though.
Call me a messenger of night. A knight of nights. A night within a knight. In all my poems, I look for my darkened self. Lost to me. Somewhere in the hiddens depths of night. Somewhere in the deep depths of lost memories, of sweet france of mountains and oceans. All dissolving into the current movement of Climate Change, so poetically labeled by humans.
Why is night is so quiet and so full of melodies?Why is love love only when it never dies?
