Have I betrayed my own thoughts and turned
back in time, never to recover from their departure?
The silence which had covered the layers and layers
of their going, has come back to swallow me and
the house of solitude stands like a lone bird caught
in the hibernation of winter, the sun broke its pact with
the earth, the clouds slowly begin to sever their love for the
rain, and no memory hangs between them, no point of return
etched on the waters of the ocean, the slow mist of forgetting dangles
along dry trees in the valley, as I lay conjuring the last image
you left me with, an image with no double, with no likeness
with no time to cast it in- as someone who dies without an archive.
I travelled through all those times covered in blood; times cast
out of history, the spaces slowly sweating the last memory, hanging
somewhere in the small cracks in the wind, in the openings in the earth,
in the fragments of the stones and the tears of the rivers, I travelled there;
where no stories survive, no narratives being weaved in threads of lost
hope, I was still searching your image there in the eyes of the child,
torn and ravaged by war and human greed, and I saw a small flicker
somewhere coming from the ‘bitter fruits’ of life, cast away from all beings,
In that one moment of love I had become one with the ‘being’
And found you in me, my love!
About Manohar Kumar: