Crooning to the milky ways is the oar of the boatman;
Splash…splash…the monotone syncopated the buzzes of the cricket.
The melted old face on the silver water bore a single eye
Of the big fish crooning to the combing of the old
rotten wooden oars.
Time wrapped in mist-wet Cashmere shawl weaving quilt.
More and more circles getting shaped prisoning stages
of life on the chiffon stage.
Hands of hours, minutes and seconds looking debonair,
guising the members of a Jazz band gifting
a melody playful melancholy.
Splash…the messenger, the passenger of the boat, dived
into milky blue with the belongings,
a hand and a head. A barn-owl out of fog called out–
it hoots imitated the voice of the trombone.
Opening my eyes, drowsy in dream, I look down
from borealis. I smiled at me.