by Prabir Gayen
One of my bodies on the funeral stove,
One is underground deliquescent to elements.
One is walking careless on Antediluvian, Quaggy mountain with ancient snow.
Each part is equilibrium, forming and Dissolving,
The sun is dropping onto the lid
The birds sing with mindless hue.
The feeling of no feeling is vast in it's profundity,
The kingdom is empty like mirror with no image inside.
The word shrinks within its womb rapping
The world behind to relax on its penumbra.