Sun in the mountains


We love the sun in the mountains.
We pray to him below moustache.

We get copper coins on our skins,
Emblems that are his tiny tattoos.

His morning’s light is soft delight.
His mountain gold is poet’s love.

Adult one gets somewhat rough.
We pray to him to turn old soon

And die quickly in the mountains,
So he is born and remains a baby.


About nisheedhi

Retired banker with poetry and photography as chief interests
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