The Dome of Life
Lost homes and grapevines dwell in memory's dome, aching yet dancing in…
Read more →A crimson leaf displays a drawn corpse from bloodied turf, bound for heaven's grave.
It’s eight past seven,
And I am home,
Stitching my muse
On a crimson chinar leaf
I have recently rescued
From the famished Dal;
On the canvas of the leaf,
I drew a corpse
Exactly the way I had it found
Lying on a blood-stained bed of turf
Like a bride
Waiting
For the arms of love
And be buried
In the graveyard of heaven.