When drinking warm breaths of a pigeon,

You, wholly laughing, called him spiky

And he, inserting a hooked beak into lips’ coloured region,

Shaking his wing, did he consider you a dove?

Unlikely!

A flock of orioles was flying,

Like triangle of dawns, onto the body

In brows’ twilight trying to conceal

The mirrors of the morning seas

And those fell low, akin to the singing of kings.

Behind their shining haulm,

As with an air of golden weather,

At times would shudder known

Steep flight of hill towards the nether.

A pigeon’s legs of crimson

Were buried in a hairdo fluffy.

Autumnal-chilly, he has come.

He’s in disfavour with his covey.