Time bends on the blade of a grass

proving its existence

and slowly the innocent raindrops

follow the path and

makes an impression in the heart of the earth

slippery and slimy with the monsoon

loneliness carries its weight around my little garden

while the black nightingale

cries and

and the cruel wind carries its hoarse cries

deep into the oblivion

the eye of the time is twisted

the skin of the time is crimped and

pinched at varied places

and I can see the reflection

of the loneliness in the heron at the

base of the cliff

is he mourning or

he meditating

/who could tell/

pain is invisible

like our own hands in the dark

you feel without really feeling

you discern slowly

without actually

seeing

and feel its presence

darkness falls slowly

in your eyes

and I can see the shifty moon

smiling in the heart of skies

a smirk across his face

Can you feel his pain now?

I blog at Megha’s World

Photo by Tony Detroit on Unsplash