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by Durlabh Singh
I fell asleep
In middle of the night
Or perhaps it was a day
Feigning the darkness.
There was a beggar
At my tapped door
Begging for a silver spoon
Or perhaps for a pot of gold.
A limpid long life
Like flow of a river
Descending into the dust
Perhaps in harassed fever.
If I was asleep
Who was the other I ?
Cajoling, decreeing
Perhaps a child with a dagger
Or a painted being in swagger.
Days come and go
But the sun without a race
Soulful of its luminosity
In a jocund dark space.
Copyright © 2002 Nuvein Magazine.
