The torch of
the sun
Creates a centre
stage
Even in the margins
Where we find
ourselves
It sparks the
sight at dawn
Whereas in our
blindness
We grope and
stagger enroute
Towards the criss-cross
of time
Here the noon
makes no difference.
When the hour
comes finally
To unpack the
gifts of the day
We hold on to
the wrapped past
That we have
failed to disburden
Even as we trudge
with the load
Amidst the cue
of barren breeze
That spreads
like a song from twigs
Now the hour
of the torch
The burnt epitaph
on pyre
Charred remains
of us like anyone else
The night of
the time we had .
Delhi
02.40 hrs
26.12.23
2109
No comments:
Post a Comment