In That Loom - Poem by Ananta Madhavan
In that loom there are a thousand hazards,
(Precarious, the thread of our discourse)
The streaking shuttle is a miracle.
(A thousand hazards crowd upon that loom)
Shooting through a parted symmetry;
(Invisible between our words and glances)
A thousand swords in upraised avenue,
(Precarious, the rhythm of the shuttle)
Like a ray it passes and returns,
(Rays fragile in our remembrance)
Flight-prints in a woven Odyssey.
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