Stripping to the Bones

Now me, now not, 
a thought is always there. 
My genes navigate on collapsing walls, 
words, dark mind, broken dreams. 
But thought is always there. 
I hold on firmly to sounds, 
voices, tongues, 
the thought is always there. 

Brain goes into a nameless friction, 
of aimless voyage 
I rediscover the myth and abandon the zone of thoughts. 
Distance becomes a wailing music. 
Sitting between the flesh and bones 
I recognise the relic of a window. 

Let us dropp the years, 
become timeless, empty and hollow. 
Egocentric wind violates the lungs. 
We cannot sing in praise of earth. 
I walk through the body, 
stripping to the bones, to find the seeds. 
I refuse to pluck the flowers.

Satish Verma