Am I one, two or three?
Or many in the vicinity of neighbors.
I perch on roofs, as poems;
on windows as dawn and on floors as dreams.

A part of me flutters when solitude turns dark.
You see houses and streets turn black
I am that cloud which rows over, assuring
The real rains will be much better.

I don’t fly away but fly into a few eye doors
Though I don’t want to,
but I realise the sky is your mansion.
The water tank on the roof, the sea
The walls, mountains;
as a part of me also nests in one of
your territories called rooms.

I stay there as a Sparrow on the bulb,
showing you
that mornings too have a’You’
like dark rains.

You don’t want confusion
and so a part of me also confuses itself,
flying in the sea
watching Salmons swim on skies.

When the parts join, two wing-tips join too
creating a sphere; creating a zero
which is also the shutter button
on their hands.

Here, two photographers out in the wild,
fight over me
They know how to frame me in stills.
If only they could capture my teachings,

then you would wake each day to a gallery
touching your live frames and praising
I would forget to exist as a bird,
becoming a companion,
and who else are companions better than skins

The calenders won’t have me.
Emotions would be flexible.

You would mix in my wind one day.

But you won’t stop.


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