Crib of Sun

He faked a letter to god and slept whole night. (Fallen in a creek from a moving train.) Indeed, he saddled himself with luxury of oblivion. The success around him was most obstinate. Pretending to condone the arthritis of social limbs, he walked straight to become what he would be, a fakir among riches without fanfare. The absolute renunciation, slapping the door – shut, for blackness. It was visible, the nakedness of brazen lies falling like cottonwool around him. He touched coral eyes of truth and wept, never to speak again. Cosmos would split for his journey to home. This was meant for you, he said to himself. Your own choosing without any regrets. His fingers traced the figure of a mother of the thin moon, who was assaulting the crib of sun. SATISH VERMA