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Time bends on the blade of a grass
proving its existence
slowly the innocent raindrops
follow the path
make an impression in the heart of the earth
slippery and slimy with monsoon
Loneliness carries its weight
around my little garden
while the black nightingale cries
cruel wind carries its hoarse
screech deep into the oblivion
the eye of the time is twisted
the skin of the time is crimped;
pinched at varied places
I can see the reflection
of the loneliness in the heron at the
base of the cliff
Is he mourning or meditating?
Who could tell?
Pain is invisible
like our own hands in the dark
you feel without really feeling
you discern slowly
without actually seeing
and feel its presence
Darkness falls slowly
in your eyes
and I can see the shifty moon
smiling in the heart of skies
a smirk across his face
Can you feel his pain now?
First published in Literary Yard
Photo by Tony Detroit on Unsplash |
