Chessboard

dark matters are floating like bowls made of leaves spilling hunger, make me upset, figures moving like ghosts wrenching out the fish plates from rails, nothing will move now except the eyebrows of stone faces, bodhisattvas sitting in scorching sun, unshaven, crosslegged waiting for realization to come, not to them but tormentors, a milky way in ever night, the dry wind slaps on the faces to remind them not to sleep, the shade of the Cacti and Acacia seldom stubborn to give you the shadow of the blades, the sun ultimately compresses you in the waist- high grass of death trap. SATISH VERMA