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I’d throw up any lifeless flesh
That gets interred inside me.
If I am the unwavering wind,
I’d cease my daily escapades,
Probably retire for a jiffy.
If I am the ever grinning sun,
I’d just repress my effervescence,
So that my rays won’t be mocked.
If I am the indolent moon,
I’d stop coming, and go on sabbatical.
And thus would begin famine of sleep.
And If I am the bloated clouds,
I’d give alms out with my downpour,
To other arid planetary terrains.
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