The great halo

A halo goes around.

Its silent steps all over

trample out the darkness. 

Under its gaze

creation reaches cremation. 

There is no stop. 

The march continues. 

A life is born.

Released slowly 

onto the four feet of survival. 

A tongue swoops down

reaching everything in one thick swab.

The umblical cord wears out. 

Splits, sprouts and dies into many. 

To join the march again. 

A life is borne. 

The halo goes around. 

The unsaid

There is so much unsaid 
forming a great margin 
for the little 
that gushes out into the main.
There are more spaces
where ecosystems grow 
without anyone's notice. 
Without any loss 
the ruins of a moment
become the background. 
Little things left to themselves 
comeback to their shelters. 
Outside, it rains 
and the puddles boil with essence. 
And death climbs out of the coffins 
to be that supportive back 
to the boquet of life. 

A midnight vignette

The mid-night breeze goes around
Checks twice, if the world
is locked up warm for the night.
Four feet alone, together remain awake
in a tent of yellow mist
hanging from the street lamp.

Clasped hands are air tight
holding on to the time left.
Beyond this, the night
clouding over everything.
Dark blue or black
it is opaque even to imagination.
In its velvet shoes a cat goes past.
A dejavu with sparkling eyes.
There is a quick hug.
Fear doesn't spare togetherness.
That hanging fear for tomorrow.

All this while
shadows are at work.
They seem to clue in:
Now is the time, now is the time.
To breach another boundary. 

From the future

A sadness from future
becomes a knot around my neck.
A poisonous clot of knowledge,
it decorates me.
I look around the room
and names fall off
the register that is kept.
Books turn cold
for the lack of warm hands.
No longer will they bury the noses
and twist the glasses askew
in their last attempt
to change a perspective. 
Oil stains on the keyboard
will not be kept up.
Hurried calls will not be made
to share something minute and monumental.
Cracks too will disappear from the story.
Walls knowing no inhabitant
will crookedly laugh.
A place goes cold.
It spreads out into darkness.

Inner breeze

I have gravity in me.
It pulls everything towards
a lurking unknown centre.
Happenings and stillness
flutter the inside breeze.
There, in tracts of nowhere
I exist.
Yes, it is just me.
Self looking at self.
In a mirror, so polished
reality and image
merge into ambiguity.

Keep the night going

They keep the night going.

The earth turning.

They, the scarecrows of the dark:

The long dead and forgotten.

The bustle that I hear

is beyond the reach

of the enveloping night's screech.

An invisible plow

keeps the furrows intact.

Wells condense the winter

down their throats.

A potter's wheel turns itself.

And the blacksmith's fire

is alight with care.

Chatter fills the streets.

Leaves take shape and fall

Become tomorrow's waste.

A distant traveler's eyes rest

at the sight of civilization.

A general bonhomie

of a parallel universe persists.

Meanwhile, the deathbeds

left behind at home transform

into working desks of fertility.

Some stay

Some memories always stay
the same extent of yesterday.
But they grow deeper today
Pull me in from the quay.

In threads of dark streams
a river runs in my dreams.
Taking with it the memory-tombs
while the Present hurriedly combs.