One gets into the blue, Mondays
And at times in rarest of moons.
Our pictures have blue sky tops,
In translucent blue temperature.

Mountain flowers are blue bells
Beloved of spring in mountains,
Like seashells blowing fine music.
In a  distance , the hills are blue.

Blue veined we pray a blue night
For blue throat of Shiva’s poison,
Lumped in His throat not to hurt
A world’s innocence in His belly.

Hills are smooth and a fine blue,
From a smoke we see going up,
Our horizons blue and receding.
From hilltop the sea is blue sky.


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