Trembling

Sparks are dimmed. No use collecting them. I will burn my home to get light. My god was sleeping. Let me use the night goggles. On the ridge walks a silhouette of limping buddha, his neck broken. I did not help myself falling. He had asked me “Are you me ?” The anxiety of lifting the rock again. I gather the grass leaves on my toes. Nobody wants to ruin the day looking at baby silence, featureless, mute. SATISH VERMA