I

at the edge at the edge of the echo            then    she said

 just above the precipice     you know the one I mean the

precipice near the rim         do you know it         the rim

twice gilded

its circles

gilt-edged rings

one above the other

like suspended halos

that an angel left behind    

attempting to meet

yet

blissfully       yes blissfully

unaware        of the improbability of such a union

as they hovered        glowing

in perfect symmetry

lit by what remained           remained of the trailing light

as the sun swiftly departed            managing just in time

to exit             as it sank helplessly             it is said

into sound     sound that lay at the edge of the echo

in all its purity

characterized by the clarity of its radiating waves

meet me there           she said again

almost in a whisper

a whisper made melody made echo at its edge

just above      above the precipice that

looked down

at the abyss from over the rim      

a rim no longer lit by the sun that had meanwhile set

without ceremony               in silence

without a whisper or

sound of any kind

clear then your throat          and sing

sing the end of the world to me

she said         

in a clear voice

 betraying no emotion        whatsoever

II

are you there            

somewhere   there   where

my words may         just may         reach you

among

thoughts        that lounge around  refusing

to bestir

rustle

turn twist       shake themselves awake or

at least out of the numbness or      stupor

they find themselves in or

yesterday’s staleness refusing to leave

stench palpable        the dead had tenanted the place

choke the tears

out of eyes

already red

from lack of sleep

the need to stay alert stay awake keep dreams at bay   distanced

fenced out or in        remain out of reach

matter of putting one’s hand firmly on head

 pushing hard downwards

 keep the pressure

 stifle              struggle         deliberate      drown

perhaps not like something

that did not take place        happen

except maybe           imagined or

 just

fancied

…

Naveen Kishore, publisher Seagull Books and photographer.