I listen to a converstation.
It continues with an edge,
moves with a momentum,
turns and twists as often,
beats me down for a moment.
They call the stars for accuracy.
The moon remains as an underwriter,
Affirm by the sun. The hillocks
provide them support.
I stumble not once but several times.
What do they talk? I am lost.
Their words are implausible. They go
for hours together. Could it be an exercise
of vanity? Sounds quixotic.
Wish to be away from such emanations.
Meenas Poems 