The ashes ripple the stream
of gleaming moments.
Like stillness into motion is rejoicing:
the child is the man, the man is the child.
The man has forgotten
the song of innocence.

The child shivers before the high walls,
and the floor grows into an abyss.
The present’s starched and dried
to get fresh creases, the sun falls asleep.
Its red covering leaps
as if echoing the erotic works of ash
in the peripheral time.

The sky deepens into a bigger abyss
adorned in black cloud, the black rocks.
Fist of blood breaks gates of stones,
only air is human in this solitude!

Desire transfixes inside the primeval eye.
  The eye that transmutes as a bird
    whose wings outstretch
  to explore the motion and the stillness.
It opens and closes the doors
that open into rooms
often with no interior.


Copyright©2003, Debashish Haar, All Rights Reserved