by Dr. K.V. Raghupathi
Here all history means nothing
The river is quiet in this quiet night
I see the swan-like moon sailing with the gentle flow
the stars with the moon like mourners.
I hear the occasional fall of leaves on the flow
as the cool wind combs my hair
and cools my thoughts with the lap of water.
Here all pursuits in life appeared like colourless pebbles.
My dreams stranded
and also love and grief in the settled stillness on the leaves.
High on the mound I sit and watch a kingfisher on the lowered branch
contemplate on the break of quiet night in the east.
With rare calls of birds in the voiceless white night
flowing over the cobwebs and peat
Should I caress my benumbed thoughts
that built my life over fifty winters and fifty summers
and say that we two are different?
How can the thought be different from the thinker?