Voyaging Along

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Mist, a blanket of death, is rising.

 

With sunken eyes I look around,

seeing nothing but damp darkness.

 

The night’s dank dew clings

to blades of grass.

 

The cold wind chills the marrow—

an invisible stiffness grabs from behind.

 

A crescent moon rises up

from distant hills

 

like the face of a corpse,

surrounded by dim, starry candles.

 

Beside the gnarled tree of ancient wisdom,

under leaves dripping with oily water,

 

under the wake of an earthquake,

I stand quiet and mute.

 

Longing for dawn, I move

in a new way to a new space.

 

Leaving dead petals back

with heavy memories of the Past,

 

I move on, searching for a place,

where suffering meets its end.

 

Stepping over black twigs and a dead fly,

with all my soul, with all my bleak thoughts

 

of death and decay,

I move on, searching for a place,

 

where misery meets its end—

and shrinks like raisin in the sun.

 

 

Twitter @bibek_writes

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