The Great Burial

The heron had dreams in her wings

Dreams that I weaved 

With violet threads that dripped like webs

From my empty soul

How I had wished to travel the world 

On that white expanse of velvet 

Condescending coyly, like a virgin maiden.

Those gravitised dreamers kept growing 

As the Krishnachura's glowed like mutants  

Ready to burst into series of wildfires

And while I dressed in beautiful gowns made of smog 

With an insinuation of the dusted truth

The heron flew higher to never return again.

So, I kept sending herons into the heart of the sky

Everyday till my breaths turned into little puffs of black smoke

And now, they are all those oscillating clouds

Those are all my herons...