To be angry, sad, and aloof,
Silent and static entrapped in the trance of a glass bubble
You alone can do this to me.
You evoke in me the desires of,
The night’s rain and the misty morning light.
The syntax between the river and its swimmer of being wet,
Those who are silent, measures words.
Searching for new gist and guise,
We don’t wet to be river,
To be a river are we patient like earth,
To bear so low, its subsiding wetness,
Its silence, anger and love, everything flows,
And its syntax quite unknown.