Like a penitent pigeon, grief has settled again on the ledge;
Molten moons have lingered and shone in vain on the ledge.
Past countless midnights I have dimmed the waiting lantern,
The dying flames in lungs have left a stain on the ledge.
Which arborist of the kingdom has deadheaded my fingers
When graffiti of wooers hum and howl a refrain on the ledge?
The revellers kissed the teardrops on the sand when she drowned,
For hours she was robbed, disrobed and drained on the ledge.
The moaning winds have borne witness to rise of the traitors,
Flayed limbs of the credulous writhe in pain on the ledge.
Uma you who flutter and gasp for syllables within a couplet,
Scribblers of the times gush like the rain on the ledge.