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Monday, August 8, 2016

Parching Eyes.1

A maimed sage
coiled up all his penance
in to a quiver of bliss
sitting; see- far there
on a stone-small broken piece.

The suffering
once were incisive nails
slipping out of hands
to silent frail
couched down
in a sturdy boat
sailing awfully
in an unseen moat.

The hand that
had been guarding
the fruits of unseen tree 
now turns into a tree itself
upside down
fruits,flowers,leaves,branches
are right there
where there lie the root.
He knows he is the watchman
without body and
without hand and foot.

He is there
he is not there
neither that 'there' exists

He is here
he is at far
neither his joys and penance vanishes.


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