May the sun grow old

We love the sun in the mountains
Being hyper allergic to afternoons.
We pray to him below mustache.

We get copper coins on our skins,
Emblems that are his tiny tattoos
We are hyper to , he is ultra about.

His morning light is soft delight.
His mountain gold is poet’s love.
But adult one gets a little rough.

We pray to him to turn old soon
And die quickly in the mountains,
So he is born and stays that way.


About nisheedhi

Retired banker with poetry and photography as chief interests
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