Words jump up from an empty paper,
Dusts under a sunbeam.
A monocle licks just icing of the cake,
And winks the flavour of ink.
Pretty much the same,
As the breadth of one's nose,
Thus far the eyebrows can take.

Deliberate erection of the heavy wind,
Knocked all those weed.
Now a sandpaper in hand,
To finish every deed.
One can confirm
The magic of time.
A successful rhythm
Of each and every rhyme.



Copyright 2008 Roshan Tulachan