He is sitting on the top of a mere mountain’s rock,
which is standing alone among the roaring waves of ocean.
Who is he?
A priest or a saint,
Or only an imagination in which i am trying to paint .
Sometimes, he is seems like a lonely star at night,
Sometimes, he is surrounded by
His own aura in sunlight.
Nothing to say.
Like a statue on the peak
Many times I have thought about him,
Where he has lost his intoxicated mug of verses’s rim.
I want his mug defiled for a kiss,
And want to know the taste of his lips.
But he is living at most far distance,
And my all longings is drowning in Barmuda’s triangle.
Many times, I call him but my voice’s lost in thunderbolt
And return as ruining boat like
The empty echoes by hitting with hard rock.
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