Deserting a shrine, in the swirling
by Satish Verma
waters, I move, unbuilding
a path, under the shade of the moon. the
sprawling village has been swept off/and
so were the ponyriders;
a lifeless symphony of howling winds/
scatters the silence.
I step forward to meet the vapors
of after death./The souls are dead/
and the ghosts are walking in dark.
No ignition was left to recognize the faces.
No god was seen nearby.
I am at loss to make the return journey.
A boulder as big as the temple/
obstructs the view. There are moaning
voices/coming from under the sunk
houses. Why won’t the unseen hands/build
up a bridge. I eat your words
and go in trance.
Where are the bottle’s jinnees now?