Clutter of Time | Ananya S. Guha
Now there is no use
telling those stories
dipped in black ink
water sprouts nowhere
as those stories are in
trance of no time.
Birds heave
clutter of time.
Now there is no use
telling those stories
dipped in black ink
water sprouts nowhere
as those stories are in
trance of no time.
Birds heave
clutter of time.
A pack of hungry hyenas
they would pry her open
to consume what is inside
they who have no interiors
who must feed off each other
yet remain ever unsatisfied.
What she possesses within
would not survive outside
in the open where they dwell
though what they need she has
to quell that inner emptiness
they cannot completely hide.
She perceives the void beneath
their noisy exteriors, smiling
inwardly while they orbit around
pulled but repulsed by her gravity
a closed book to these lost souls
forever circling never nearing.
Blue river of compassion
how those waves open
unfurl into righteous men
riding your waters
crescent moon and the hill
on other side mourns
lapping waves, cries of the seagull, lament of fishermen
in an island that is sinking.