Between the eyes and on the temples,
the untold things in detail,
are engrafted in the language of pain,
sprung from the involuntary locomotion of thoughts.
The ghastly moments in horror stories I read
in childhood become innocuous and comforting.
They come and disappear into
the disorderly paraphernalia of guilt
and sinfulness, typical of the young minds,
embracing a horrific algorithm
spun around nights and days, and days and nights.
Very many things rave and rampage into there–
they knock and pull and strain and hurt
in restive sleep of howling gusts and gales.
How long will the storms numberless rankle it?
These are not futile cravings– cease,
CEASE the ruction of this smallest land, yet
as enormous as the volume of the universe;
moving or what?
Lull the sleepless pupils on the hearth, lead them
to the lush and tranquil island.
Is a fabled nowhere your resort? How will the
crumbling sinews react to this? I rose and found
a noisy market, where plies a train everyday,
vague and vacant.