Between the past
and the now-hour
I straddle--the tomorrow
is a bridge to cross over
there's too much on hand
I've no time to think
of what would follow--

the bridge might have
been blown away
by an unknown storm
a nearby volcano
(none would know so)
or a bomb that has exploded
(never mind the name
of the perpetrator  or his wherefore)

or its steel structure
would have given way
due to its structural fault
(pointless to try to trace
the name of the engineer)--


beyond
another trajectory
the omnipresence
(more the machination
than charity)
of destiny--

I'm no hero
but not a coward either
that I am brave enough
to declare--

light, very light
would I travel
food and water to last
only for a while
but plenty of paper
I'd carry along
as my poems
I've to write
( it's easier
when no one
is in sight)--


winds would rush
through my hair
under my feet I'd feel
the sun-scorched ground
thick dust
would be blown
into the air
or the rain torrential
would drench my make-shift tent
at the dark hours of night--

my poetry
would be
my only companion
it would somehow
set me free
and I'd not be lonely--

moonlight
however dim
shall be my light
as into the depth
of night
I write--

the distant stars
I behold
hiding beneath
a trail of drifting clouds
yet like friends
their glow they flicker
upon the paper white
upon which I write--

a strange chill
runs through my spine
a mysterious force
my uncertain hand
it drives
words rush
the blank pages
to fill

am I then
the poem
or
is the poem
a shadow of mine?