Poets in June

We were pilgrims bathing in a holy river,Verenasi at our fingertipsparaphernalia of floating flowersincense on sunrised ghats.It was a question of allowancebreaking mental chains that bound us.We were not made for other peopletheir questionings and climaxes,which left us bemused.We were poets and nothing else matteredexcept the clime of the verbpunctuation of the kisses,integrity of the moment.Snowstorms in Juneapple blossom in Januarycurve of a morning song.Our sadness chimeswith the fervourof Cathedral bells.