Being me
like a butterfly I cannot
fold the wings.

Why do we need to
burn the orchard grass
for an interim exit.

My bête noire was me.
I would not separate the
statecraft from worship.

Snubbing the trees,
I want to climb tall to know, why
were we using sarin and mustard.


On the road to avatars,
I won’t believe, that a released
soul should come back.

Robotic, someone was
searching a lost forest.