Sunlight-bokehs engaged on wave-riding.

Fishes, for chilly sunlit-lunch underneath, gather.

Mild waves from afar assemble into gentle ripples

Around mossy stones on banks there.


Tide’s tired in the midday hour,

Yet countless waves twirl,

Numerous, more so than in tide’s command,

Shoring up cargoes, sands, dusts, and ships

Gradually picking up their pace.





Weeds drunk in that trance

Above the abyss –

Roots peek at eyes tracking clocks,

And dive deep to dance

In rhythm with our hide and seek with sunny rays.


In shade ghosts walk beneath the skins,

In light Present’s lifetime gleams.

And with stranger year’s beckon

December’s mute signposts here begin

Their rusted backward countdown.


Dear, dear River, flowing for epochs,

Jingling midday suns on your back,

How will you recount your tale

Of this falling stars’ carnival

To a busy, lazy mind beside you?


Or should you rather, my lady,

Be witnessing, quietly,

Another or a dozen eons

Rolling on your liquid meditation?