Dying Flames

When white mushrooms
come in procession
after the rains,
you bring back my ache―
O pink rose
words fall like birds.

Caparisoned, the
moon was rising from
the sand dunes, like a
camel after the festival of kiss
of love. The singed bank
of the lake was submerged in tears.

Fold your wings, O peacock,
clouds are going back home.