The Writers' Circle

Mortal  nights
The wind with serpents
The trees with stones
And stars with dust bowls.

The original nakedness of 
Being
Cornered now with 
Vacuity of gaze
Empty eyelids feebly abound
With nettles of teared streams
Mortal nights
Full of secrets
Full of arrows
Freshly calcined
In dust bowls the undertones
Amid heartaches begin anew
In seasons of whispered tones.

Durlabh Singh.