The angel walked on bare feet scattering the ashes underfoot.
The night sat garlanded at the shrine like a God abandoned.
The candle burnt itself into submission yet again.
Somewhere at the end of the evening the angel raised his head full of hair and let out a deep sigh.
The stones had promised not to indulge in gossip or to whisper their secret.
It was a long walk and a lonely one but she had decided to undertake the journey regardless.
The dead anxiously awaiting resurrection.
Over time the icy wind had gone rancid becoming stale putrid and foul-smelling.
I stand at the door watching with eyes made of glass and just waiting.
Naveen Kishore, publisher Seagull Books and photographer.
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