In the carousel of autumn, a bird of time spins and spins.

Questions, meant to be lived under, remain open like mouths of shells.

Lost lovers, sometimes, are shadows of cypress trees on moonlit windows.

The airelist heart, emptied of itself, finally has become a banyan tree,

whose rooms of root you enter and leave. And in them, pages

of half-read books flutter open to breathe in bearings of your horizon-bound passages.

I have dwelt in the cave of silence for days, painting its walls with the ocher of words.

And now this talk. So if someone asks why do I write now, what true answer to give?