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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required I It is dawn. Brother, rise. Let us give vent to the rising sun, and with claps of the Mind, welcome its waking ecstasy. Distances prevail — measured on the sun’s distance From the soils. Ephemeral, morn; so we shall set forth early to lay In our wake prevarications of morn’s trite. Let us wake the prelate and demand signs. Even the signs of time conjure up such slip On the murky ways of distance. The owls hoot on leaves’ top, and suddenly the Face of the sun coils into the void above, and Tenterhooks tie our trekking feet with mocking gyves. I break free and choose to walk alone. II Am I an iconoclast —stirring forth hungry woes I enshroud myself in? I doubt it seriously. A prodigal comes home when the heavens withdraw Every single star at night. He borrows light from his own wandering eyes. He learns not again to creep onto saddles of aversion. I find here un-meek and un-heavenly. The bars of abnegation barricade my views Upon the clusters of stringed earths. My eyes are veiled! I see the fore and not the rear. I started all the trouble. Even the greatest raconteur cannot tell Completely the tale of isolation. For there I have landed my feet by the method of The foetus. When you have clambered through slimy, widowed Canals, your feet gather soggy moss. III From a careful distance, at the mercy of proven light, The rev of the engines On the motorway get to me in my hole. Even the somnambulist at sleep time walks on me So reckless and feckless this city; people here have Freckles on their mind-manners And they do not cringe before the pronouncements of Hard chastisements and flagellations. I never for once failed to recall the days I summoned Protocols of the bleeding feet, to ask why the days Creep. It became a futile summons, and the grounds refused The views of footprints. I hang all issues of Zen on desolation and ascend the groves Of high tree twigs. IV I am webbed! The stridulations of the winged ones are afar Crepitations anywhere are dim and relegated to the Backyard of ancestral senses. Manners about me become strange and withered. Flickers from burning tears shower my troubled face to Rekindle life on it and throw light upon things long hidden from me. Quite like summer which throws light on all things hidden through the Other seasons! I am full of attention. I couldn’t concentrate more. And I begin to reason. From within the depth of this deep, teeth Clatter, and there’s a toll from a deadened bell. The floor of the temple is poachy And I hear within the basement of my soul the Swish of the metallic staff of direction. Revealed to me is the Agony of Time. I peer more intently and strain more patiently, Receiving details of the causes of our hell and Stagnation. The moment attains more darkness and stops all sights, Except those of the ravens and the crows. The Agony of Time continues.
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