The earth shies away
carrying my load
As if it were sky on my shoulders.
Things do not see me clearly
Shadow collides with me
I am imprisoned
in the walls of bygone years
The time
is like the wrinkles
on the face of an old fakir.
Let me shake it like the ashes.
From the corner of my house
Let me throw out
The torn wings of the bird of peace.
The butterflies of letters
that are imprisoned in the book
Let me fly them off
to the blue sky.
Like the French poet Rimbaud
In rage
Some day I too
Hiding the clenched fist
in the torn pocket
will go far away
Beyond seven skies…
From ‘Aur’
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