Monday, September 19, 2011


the much avowed silence
they will start again.
From the mid-furrow
that a grandfather left off.
From a grandmother's lap
that lies vacant
in an unmarked mound.
The stories told by them
and about them, wake up to life.
And have their wings spread
from end to end.
The little character sketches
drawn out of mythology and boredom
form a continuous stream.
Hopping from knot to knot.
Thought to thought.
Of a rope hanging in mist.
We are to listen intently
for anything that can be picked up.
It is that story time again.
And sleep doesn't silence us so soon
At least, till we have added our part.

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