"Sreabhadh",
she speaks,whilst the tide pulls,
a body forward,
bended shape..mishap,
epaulet upon the mountain of thought.
Push amongst the shore of forlorn,
leaving is not so strong,
one wants to rob the air,
to flourish the breath from lung.
They speak..
'love which does not belong here'.
From word..the lines blend
into flesh,
that which flows from the passage.
Lo! The book has been read,
cannot the fable be told different,
not this ending,
not to cease,
it cannot conform to the emotion,
another farewell..
"Stromen",
I speak,
whilst the ebb evolves,
a body forth,
gnarled shape..mistaken,
thrown upon the knoll of ideation.
