In your poem
There is a blank verse, unmeasured
A body that breaths, an open sky
A window leaning towards life
In your poem there is a deep silent pain
the courage to step into a house in darkness
With a veranda opened to the world
It has the night
The smile and your voice remade in the daylight
The celebration of the saints
and the tiredness
Of a body falling asleep in a cold bed
In it, a river
The fate of those born weak or strong
The risk, the rage and the struggle of one who falls
or that persists
That defeats or falls asleep before his death
In your poem
There is the drill and the echo of shrapnel
A pain I know by heart but will not recite
And the restless dreams of one who fails
In your poem
We hear a traditional folk song
A street and the sounding cries of a fishmonger wife
A boat pushed ahead on set sails
In it, a river
A melody sung in harmony, with reliant voices
a lonely Om
and a single destiny in which to embark
At the pier, the new ship of discoveries
In it, a river
The fate of those born weak or strong
The risk, the rage and the struggle of one who falls
or that persists
That defeats or falls asleep before his death
In your poem
There is the burning hope behind the wall
And all else that still eludes me
and yet still a blank verse waiting for the future