My evenings are a sonata of loneliness
Seeped in the memories of my fingers
Rooted to your fingers, in the bones conjoined
The symphony of swallowing silence.
My poetry tells me the story of the ‘Hijal kanya’,
The daughter of the wild mountains
who chatted with the brook,
and left her unfinished stories in its bosom,
In the days of yore.
My evenings are the ghostly whisperings
Of the trees who carry in their bodies
The story of that daughter of the wild mountains
And her lover who wanted her, beneath the trees,
over the talking soil, under the surrendering twilight sky.
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