|
Sometimes, a strange silence grips me
The silence cast by shadows
Of old mansions bent and rickety
In the tattered wash
Of dead evenings....
And there is that silence
That runs away, a forest path bent
Under evening shadows
Stumbling out of sight
Into forests of the night....
And there is that silence
When the land waits
With bated breath,
When the wandering winds whip
The dust off every doorstep,
When at last the monsoons come
Wearing anklets of passion
And thoughts watch
From behind weeping windowpanes.
And then there is that silence
Of the wide open skies at night,
The coy and bashful moon
Amid the pindrop silence
Of hamlets beyond the stars
Amid the green and breezy fields
Of the milky way.... |
