Poets

'What remains in the folded sleeves of the winter-sky What exists in the ceaseless gibberish of the evening-madness Whose empathy advances from earth towards the bunches of green leaves What keeps growing in the scribbling of a fade, rough notebook... ”

Once Yama asked a grave-digger, for whom have you dug grave today? The grave-digger smiles, you know- nobody has died in our city.

When we forget the name of a 'ghat' left behind; When a known face cannot be recalled at any attempts;