They were not really strangers except of the visage
When they slipped  into my questioning afternoons
Intercepting my brief circle, touching tangentially
Like a soft mountain wind, now arrived , now gone.

They were ghosts of their existences in my space.
They sauntered in and out of room , pallid ghosts
From the mountains, the plains, deep dark forests
The atavistic memories in their eyes tallied notes
With my own, their eye contacts brief butterflies
Resting on me,scraping poetry off minor collisions.

We asked questions of the ghosts, they raised them.
Together we raised questions,existential questions
That we had always asked,in our chance encounters
For the poetry of their asking, open-ended questions
That raised endless spiral of unanswered questions.


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