A fierce wind carries abroad
the smell of smouldering flesh.
Ashen flakes eddy about
in a turmoil, raging against reality,
furiously swirling up
only to be unceremoniously
blown hither and thither.
Portending glowing embers,
a staccato of snapping logs
and crackling bones marks
irreversible time. Blanched,
tear-marked cheeks twitch
to the agonizing beat
of gulped down sobs; unmade
promises weigh stooping shoulders;
sighs alternate with shudders. Tattered
hopes frizzle like burning hair,
smoked out of existence. Frenzied
toil halts mid-grind, seared
by piercing memories.
Brows charred by darkening brands
plunge into dreary depths; words
of succour scorch and singe.
“Those who are gone
and those who wait their turn
shall meet again
in other times, other forms” –
futile such salve
for the scalds of separation.
LINES IN THE SKY
(All Fools’ Day, 2015)
It’s a strange world here in this vast city:
Noise does not cease, only ebbs and flows;
Piercing horns rent nights, burning hurry
Fills the days; and lined like wizened old brows
Is the sky. These criss-cross lines partition
Homes, they string up people to devices,
Strangle freely the imagination,
Insidiously engender crises.
Yet these very lines do also reach out
Invisibly across spheres, sending
Silent signals, linking migrating minds:
Proliferating ideas stem doubt,
Waking contemplation, reinventing
Exuberant worlds, locating new finds.