It engulfs you like a mist
Seeping through
To your essence
An awkward silence
Tries and answers the screams
A bullock runs around
The pole, the trailing load
Creating a rut
A frog croaks in oblivion
As if not needing a response
Even the rays of the sun
That have started eating
The frightened mist
Are unhurried in their
Golden, silken dress
Windows have opened up
In the sky to take in
The vapour. Yet, the inside is damp.
Large chunks of falling
Time bury you in an avalanche
Memory that have gone bad
But reclaimed by a sudden
Urge at necrophilia
You try rearranging the thoughts
But the actions wouldn’t come
You stay buried till
The impossibility of quietness recalls
The silence within the scream
Takes its time to surface
The bullock goes round
And round and round…
Until the morning dies
In sun’s anger.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem