“Some lived in it and never felt it but he knew it all was nada y pues nada y nada y pues nada.”
– Ernest Hemingway
Silence sheds the syllables,
one by one; each, a falling
petal
in the
sun-kissed breeze
seen in the autumnal fields
on
days about to fold up.
Emptiness is only leftover; a gaping
hole
inside; a residual numbness acutely
felt on certain long nights,
when
wolves prowl and howl outside the
doors.
Hollow of a cave, an echo chamber,
the laboured breath bounces off
the damp walls, irregular
graffiti
carved crudely on granite;
trace of the diminished
yellow fog
evaporates
in the sky, lanced
by the
dance of the light on the
hill tops, partially stripped
of green; brown; scarred.
Your blank eyes reflect the
gloom of the valley, home to
old tribal songs
lost in the sighs
of the last trees.
.
Sunil Sharma
Picture Nick Victor
Academic |Writer | Critic | Editor | Freelance Journalist | Reviewer | Literary InterviewerEditor: Setu: http://www.setumag.com/p/setu-home.htmlWebsite:https://sunil-sharma.com
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.