In my heavy head, thoughts are broken.
Drizzle is grey and soft forming misty screens;
The lamp’s a yellow spot, shades are hovering –
Things disintegrate, fall into smithereens.
From the tiny bits of former happiness,
I’ll combine an intricate all-mosaic pane;
It’ll be in blue – my quiet memories;
In the very centre, I’ll plant a mustard grain.
There is smell of fog in the rainy rhyme –
I feel pang of pain in my aching heart.
What is left for me
just a narrow line
subtle faded taste
of the land
afar…