Far east, bright rays have taken birth.
Can the sun soar back to its nest?
Not for the sky, nor for the earth.
The red wings shall drown in the west.
The milk's been spilt but looks so sweet.
Can it flow back, litre by litre?
You drank not, nor did I eat.
The soil shall just get sweeter.
In the cradle, a new life has smiled.
Can it, to the womb, retire?
Not for the mother, nor for the child.
With tiny feet, it shall march to the pyre.
A semicolon; and yet, life does flee.
Can we scroll back to the top?
Neither for you, nor for me.
The poem ends here with this full stop.
