playing on the raw-coal <br />the under-clothes of the airhostesses <br />continue to sing a song <br /> <br />even-then the germination of the almonds <br />can never become the sugar-candy <br />made of palmyra <br /> <br />may be they don’t want so <br /> <br />until and unless any night-guard comes <br />and deposits the RBCs of the jack-fruit-leaves <br />within a wrinkle-free hand-glove <br /> <br />you do absorb all colours <br />from the soil of the earthworms <br />and thus unfold your open hair <br />along the air of this cloudy day <br />then none but the gughni-sellers <br />will get back their names and titles <br /> <br />there is from the sky of the timber of hog-plum <br />it has rained even last night <br />the streets are wet <br />the trees are wet <br />there is splashing mud in the low lands <br /> <br />those all full-of-incidents <br />if you wish <br />you can send them <br />to the introduction of a proposal against war <br /> <br />i’ve never heard that <br />to take the responsibility <br />of the starving south-east <br />the rain has put down its crown<br /><br />murari sinha<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/lines-more-lunatic-than-the-sun-7/
