I wonder if skyscrapers wear multi storeyed heels
or the sky bends its cloudy hat every evening,
To have something reaching close might be overwhelming, the sky is known to be alone like me.
I sit far away, on one one hill of a countryside, with wilderness in my ink, I borrow flowers to tuck my tangled hair, ranting about this warm air.
My hair is sea, I end up getting the sun setting in.
It is then I know my strands are rays, glittering
the day star on my skin.
The city is the hue of sufferings, stroke of grey from animals slaughtered, bruised blue from suicidal fanning. I wonder what air they all centrifuge? A whiff of death, maybe? Nothing echoes from skyscrapers, how many have they sent to sky?
The countryside has glimpses of life, the city would never be. Sagarika - 3 hours ago