I am

The night asks me who I am Its impenetrable black, its unquiet secret I am

 Its lull rebellious.

 I veil myself with silence

 Wrapping my heart with doubt

 Solemnly, I gaze

 While ages ask me y

 who I am.

 

The wind asks me who I am

 Its bedeviled spirit I am

 Denied by Time, going nowhere

 I journey on and on

 Passing without a pause

 And when reaching an edge

 I think it may be the end

 Of suffering, but then:

 the void.

 

Time asks me who I am

 A giant enfolding centuries I am

 Later to give new births

 I have created the dim past

 From the bliss of unbound hope

 I push it back into its grave

 To make a new yesterday, its tomorrow

 is ice.

 

The self asks me who I am

 Battled, I stare into the dark

 Nothing brings me peace

 I ask, but the answer

 Remains hooded in mirage

 I keep thinking it is near

 Upon reaching it, it dissolves.

 

Insignificant woman

 

When she dosed her eyes

No face faded, no lips quivered

Doors heard no retelling of her death

No curtain was lifted to air the room of grief

No eyes followed her coffin

to the end of the road

Only a memory of a lifeless form

 passing in some lane.

 

The word echoed in alleyways

Hushed sounds, finding no shelter.

Settled in a secluded den.

A moon mourned In silence.

 

Night, unconcerned, gave way to morning

Daylight crept in with the milk cart

 and a call to fasting

A meager cat mewing,

Amidst the shrill of vendor's cries

Boys squabbling  throwing stones.

Muddy waters spilling  along the gutters

As the wind carried foul smells

To rooftops. Oblivion.

My silence

 

You may reproachfully provoke

my guilt.

Would I retreat?

Would the sharp icicle of your plaque

cut through my flames?

Would I yield,

and not go mad?

 

No.

I should revolt.

I scream inside.

But

were I to trespass

darken the air

with some bitter phrase

perhaps a misplaced word

You would be offended

turn dry like sand

Rise and quietly disappear.

Don't ask me why .

I am gagged.

Here, I remain a bed of roses bent

under your snow;

a puzzle of unanswerable questions

in some corner of your heart.

It is destiny's prescription: Adam is the ice

 Eve the fire.