LOVE  the line

A drawing is a flow of energy constantly giving birth, and swimming in that web of madness, somewhere I sense a stillness, a crazy wisdom in that gap.

Man remains a nervous line right across the pages of his life,
remembering, recollecting, knowing,
knowing that his breath caught in the web of his flesh,
once belonged to that star,
knowing that the wasp that flew in a moment ago,
now lies dead at the window sill,
dead, not as good, not as bad,
without guilt, without pain,
and without hell or heaven to turn to.
Man, a jigsaw puzzle made out of a million pieces,
which piece does he want to call by his name,
which piece can leave its footprint on this gigantic earth,
which piece can leave its mark on the oceans,
the mountains, the skies,
but who ever cares really!
Come, lets go mild into that night,
the soft spot on the newborn’s head,
is hardening while I write.

anuradha nalapat

There’s something about the line that refuses to stay still.


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