It is like the summer afternoon

In Siestas and the dying smoke in the kitchen

Smells of chilies in vinegar

Some sprouts have left

small ogles of tasteless recipes

in the sink



The hour is slow


The friends have left after the spirits

Bereft of youthful hours

Went into sullen slumber

the argument comes and goes

In strands of selfless pursuit



The evening is following

Some winds are rewinding

As the curtains are drawn

In the whiplash

of interpretations and like the wisdom

the stick is tapping

With no one at the door


I am still between

One that takes a stunning blow

On conduct

and the other bowing down to trivia


Many poles are pointed

Not one but many will lead

Wind and rewinds

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