A precious fruit.

Holding an apple is

History circulating in motion

The first fall,

The first digital revolution,

The doctors' one way.

It serves purposes of many.

But i hold an apple

With my pocket knife

Make art out of a fruit

A nice butterfly, smartly knitted

A map of my origin

It can be moulded in many

It can divide nations too

Wage a war

Genocide and what not

An imaginative flair

Of so many realities.

Objects then are not objects

But a history

Fighting against the white crown

The sun down ruling

Tearing the flag with just

A pinch of writing.

An apple can do wonders-

It saved my neighbour's

Life

A sickening days of chewing

The flesh and the core

The lady is now walking fast.

Then I have heard

A boy of merely ten

Fell to a dark depth

A big precipice of high altitude

He was picking apples

An apple served his death.

A precious fruit, I thought

And stopped my pen.

May Days.

Rains in May days are like coins

The surplus is warm

The last drop, Tangy

-An orange flush

Over my cheeks

To remind me

Flush away and heal

The poison ivy.

In the afternoons

I look up,

The violet vast spreads

In the open.

A rainbow makes my sensitivity

A beautiful pool

Of coloured waters.

Then I know howling storms pour

To mirror the humane

Blanketed deep around

A vulnerable, little child

Coiled in wintry rage

The eyes are afraid to look open

And taste the earthly paradise.

At night I walk open

The night plains

winged with doors of magic blind

A stairway to a fountain

The tails swim in the mermaid bliss

Funnel like, the soma

Wets the green flush

and weed out the darkening thrush.

Then, the castle of

The mountain

Where cherubs lie in ditsy water

And sprinkle the purplish hymn

Of Almighty