Scything the blazing sky
in slow deliberate circles,
he casts a gloomy shadow
like a silent looming spectre
upon the teeming hordes below
running helter skelter
in mortal fright.

He swoops down at will
picking his prey at random,
leaving the rest
who wail and lament,
if only for a few moments,
before resuming their habit
of scratching the earth
for a few worms or grain.

When the sky burst,
sending down a hail
of cold glass marbles
pummeling the hard earth,
we were in the curio shop, my love
caressing a dusty watch,
holding an alabaster vase,
once dear to some soul departed.
we were struck by wonder then,
at the fusillade.
do you remember?

When shafts of light
pierced the tall canopies
creating dancing shadows
'pon the forest floor
and showing us
here a mushroom,
there a pinecone
we were just inside
the tiny wooden temple
but not really praying
we were struck by wonder then
at the silence, my love.
I know you remember.

When the rain stopped
and the little island
was drenched in sunlight,
we were spread out
almost exhausted
on the silver sands
looking straight up at
our own sky
wanting each other again
but that lone pesky parakeet
screeched in protest
we laughed at the interruption,
didn't we, my love?

We had to force our way
to the gurgling stream
and dip our feet in the
Ice cold waters,
sit down on the smooth rocks.
we were in company then
but the baboons
didn't really mind it
when we held each other
and kissed.
We were mildly surprised then
that they let us be,
weren't we, my love?


Here we are again
sipping tea together
blowing into the cup slightly
and breathing in
the aroma of the brew
in a daily ritual
that's shorn of all ceremony.
I am wrinkled now; so are you.
not that it matters,
either to you or to me,
as we sit here together
sipping silently.
And we smile suddenly
at a moment shared
but never really spoken of.

like a smithy's bellow
my chest blows and puffs
stoking the embers of life
which burst into flame
with every other stroke
roaring in mild anger
yet playfully dancing.

my limbs lie dead
my face too
not even a hint
of movement
to punctuate
Life

and yet im soaring
through labyrinths
gliding, sliding,
sidling, sailing
seeing all,
touching all,
living.
here and now.

and at this very point
I am.
and at the next
and the one following
in the continuum.
I see you
everywhere.
and i know you
as i know myself.

how about you
my love?
have you been
through your own labyrinths too?
soaring, sailing like me
looking for me
at every momentary stop?

I know this
and i think you do too
that somewhere
at one of those points
we meet.
and then
nothing else matters.

we'd be wide awake then, won't we?

When the river was young,
he'd often sit on its banks of sugar sand
smoking a cigarette
lazily watching
the slow, languid, eddied
swirls that Time made
as it made its way,
rather clumsily.

Sometimes from the far bend
a tree branch would come afloating
like a bad memory,
twisting and turning in the current
with some silly bird trying to balance
and figure it out from all angles

Random voices from the far shore
cicadas chirping in the lazy afternoon
from the thick undergrowths
overhanging the flowing waters
an occasional splash by some bored fish
a silent bubble bursting
cackling waterfowls
And yet he would hear his own breath,
joining in...

The waters were slightly warm then
and gentle
and caressing
when he went for a dip
and a few strokes took him
to the little islet in the middle
and aimlessly back again
to break out in little goosebumps
from the cool breeze on his wet skin.

The river's old now
muddied, wrinkled and scarred
no more voices from the far banks
no waterfowls cackling
not even lazy cicadas
only his own breathing
heavy with the sighs
of longing.
of loss.

Wisps of an unfulfilled dream
Floated around in the air
Pale, gossamer, fading, formless
Like a word in its womb.

He drew a laboured breath in
But his heaving chest
Couldn't expel enough
To move the wisps away.

Tired eyes closed their lids,
Fast wearying of it all
And opened once again
Checking if they'd gone.

No, they hadn't ;indeed no
For they were playing it too,
The waiting game
To see who'd go first.

One more rasping breath
Drawn in long and laboured.
Then a grunting wheeze
And still the wisps lingered.

And so the game went on
Long into the cold night 'ntil
there was left no more,
Not a wisp, not a breath.


Anilkumar Parat