We were pilgrims bathing in a holy river,
Verenasi at our fingertips
paraphernalia of floating flowers
incense on sunrised ghats.

It was a question of allowance
breaking mental chains that bound us.
We were not made for other people
their questionings and climaxes,

which left us bemused.

We were poets and nothing else mattered
except the clime of the verb
punctuation of the kisses,
integrity of the moment.

Snowstorms in June
apple blossom in January
curve of a morning song.

Our sadness chimes
with the fervour
of Cathedral bells.