Lilac skies above are soaked in liquid madness. Sombre purple shades of horizon cast a magic spell on the clouds. They descend upon the land of poets. Twice, at dawn and at dusk; drink from the ponds of sonnet-dripping, moon-struck sadness in a doggerel style. Land below unfolds as the opening of a tragic epic-ballad: three wars, abandoned lover, scarlet-red destiny of the Motherland. The haiku of long-lost Summers, blues of Springs germinates. A night-blooming jasmine on the poets’ palms. Wind glides underneath the silky-smooth skin of the land’s river, forming ripples – so rhythmic, so lyrical – a thousand villanelle poems are born in the poets’ eyes. A boat comes every fortnight, singing jingles of hope, love, promises, with silver cups of ephemeral bliss. “Poetry is madness, Come with us!” The boat returns every fortnight to the land of saints, snowed with jewels of the foreign land – Fishes, Stars, Inked-flowers – but boards no poet insane.
Sombre nights amidst
Moon-struck Winters, soaked in ink –
Land poets dwell in.