A Hannah-Shaped Hole in the Universe

Why does the Indian sun

stoke my passions to a fiery foreboding

‘til my dreams leak in droplets

and evaporate back to the stifling sky?

Why am I here?

Not a matter of existence,

but location.

The Question is dusty,

sweeping through my heart’s hollowness,

each grain rubbing against the

callous of my core;

then it seeps with dampness,

sops with sullen sorrow –

eyes flung open like the bloated dead.

Thrill sludged with scum,

bogged below the ripples of doubt.

The cracked turquoise gate is bolted

shut –

Through knotted bars,

Expectations stoop naked,

stripped and slashed by Reality.

The charade is unmasked.

Wilted parade remnants crumble to

dust

and

bury

the neglected nude;

the swamp of swollen questions

bulges and

burps.

Everlasting night smothers

my numbness

with a dark shroud of

solitude

and

isolation.

.

.

.

On the other end of a tattered line

pity wraps its fragile arms around my neck .

Guilt stains my clothing

in bleeding dark embarrassments.

Life slowly oozes out of life.

The pine door of my soul

creaks and moans,

expands and unhinges.

I breathe in splinters.

Why am I here?

Not a matter of existence,

but location.


I’ve never stopped at any scenery,


I haven’t even met myself,


I have this complaint, but I am not angry;

All cities are the same, villages are the same,


People are the same and the same names . . .

Why am I here?

Kisi manzar par main ruka nahi


Kabhi khud se bhi mein mila nahi


Ye gila to hai main khafa nahi


Shehar ek se gaa’nv ek se


Log ek se naam ek ooo . . .

Why am I here?

Because . . .

There’s a richer life ahead . . .