My Soft Voices

A skirmish starts at lashes
of sun, squeezing the gist of prudence.
You whisper a shloka.

The dead won't see from
open eyes. The wisdom swells, when
war begins between doors.

You smell like white
roses. The dream of slant eyes
will pass through the sins.

Sun, symbol of knowledge, manifests in the form a sloka from the erudite. Internal war makes one prudent. All that is sinful will vanish leaving purity like that of a white rose.

Rajendra Singh Baisthakur , Nellore, AP, 524003