Atharva Gadre

I step on the ocean floor,
the cool breeze contents,
golden dust on my toiling feet,
at the fringe a fiddle sloshes.

I gather gems and shells,
folding my palms into a pormonteau,
detesting trinkets that I harvest,
a tint of silver lining unwinding into a filigree.

Closing my colors like a petrified statue,
I have not any sweats or qualms,
I seclude from the avaricious and benevolent,
blue chum alluding an attic of infinite hours.

A poem by Atharva Gadre.