It's a disease of the lungs:
the sighs of repressed fog
stultify vision.
The birds are all in the clouds
where fairies to angels sing &mdash
each to each.

The walk down the garden
recedes into a derelict wood
where nails etch names
so dear to parched lips.
And the face in the water reflects
a landscape of dried streams.

The sunset birds raise
a brief tumult
and are soon asleep.
But ailing hearts suffer
when a cold starlight veers
through the vacancy of
a divided space.

 © CR Mittal

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