HUMMING NIGHT

The enlightment drops words, things 
I am at peace with the light, 
the sand, the river. 
The thought of non-being is subtle, 
touches a cord. 
Hours slip, silicon hardens. 
Grains of truth move towards essence. 

The thought of emptiness 
was very powerful 
I sit by myself, swallow a stunned voice. 
My hands become white. 
Inside of me was a book 
holding a past. I hid nothing: my faultline. 
It was a strange poverty. 

I could not plug it, 
a hole in memory. 
The voices drip. 
A moon-knife slices my room. 
Far off a poem drifts, in blue nothingness. 
The day was very ill 
and night again humming 
a tune of rising sun.

Satish Verma