THE INK DID NOT STOP

Sitting on the heap of debris
I decided to move one day.
The rain did not stop
I was walking alone.

It was a cruel time, my toes caught
in bad thaw. I was working on a bawling
theme of comatose words, a pottery of sorts.
In fact the fear had not saved me.
The sun did not stop
I was thinking alone.

A prosaic neighbourhood had acquired
weapons, I was inattentive. My wounds
always bled in hooting night.
A flute it seems talked to me.
The moon did not stop
I was weeping alone.

Terrible, terrible it was to abandon
my home of luxury, to become a stone,
to walk like a ghost with orphaned
spirit. The voice without echo, murmuring.
The ink did not stop
I was writing alone.

Satish Verma