Rocks are men of missed souls,
In forms and shapes designed
To make livings in water and air
Below an empty sky of nothing.

They have  weird body shapes
And absurd forms of our lives
In a night rain, as  frogs croak.
Some are  turbaned noblemen

Who do nothing except nobility
And absorb nothing of weather
With smoothly rounded cheeks
Round with unintended laughs.

They are funny laughing faces
With torsos hard as mountains
And splutter with their laughter
In  broken porcelain epidermis.

They are patchwork porcelain
And  in the outside complexion
Break in honeycomb hexagons
Insides humming bee nothings.

(After a visit to the fantasy rock garden created by Nekchand in Chandigarh)