It is not a thesis I struggle to dedicate
in memory of a season
In Sangams rivers join, divert
and finally reach to no where to identify;
for them, in mornings I write not
but there is one I must tell
I write for...
not for those panchromatic lenses
who create fables and facsimiles for earth
not those ink marks wait in corridors
to settle several of scores in digital time boards
not at all for those changing facemasks
who stand behind like a space mission lab
and waste a lot of life in crafty experiments
to find  class of this earth and seasons;
listen,
there is one I write for
with no face masks or pretensions…
the one I can trust upon
there she stands- my little sisi...
and I need not worry 
if others differ or contradict.....