With a closed book, an idle paper,
A chequered shade of sterile dreams.
Looking out at a tiny ember
In a heapful of light,
I sat inert one night.

As the calm settled on the undulating sea
And the desperate boat sailed back;
Oared once again to the strings of darkness,
Like a fearful entanglement of night
The boatman had moored.

This Moon and I, witnesses to the words,
Engaged in pale perceptions.

The naked sky, the hasty wind,
The sudden burst of laughter.
The sentinel of happenings,
The cry of the alabaster.

Remembered in the gardens of the night,
Bearing tidings of a distant sun;
Green, purple, lightwashed;
Crisp shadows on the wall.

I will not presume to re-live
The specifics of the prophets
But will pass the word as a rumour
To a far-away summer that can then reaffirm
The permanence of the passing season.

In the night, the summer lay low and still
Like a blunted saw;
Waiting in her domain to cut the flakes
That make the snow.

we throw
light on
who there
is darkness
we throw
darkness
on whom
there is
light

Without, the dreams struck like thunderclaps.
The humming bees changed the colours of the rainbow.
And the shadows moved in the blackened horizon.
Then the painter painted on the canvas.
Though some anonymous travelers
Have frequently informed the spirits of delight
About a consciousness that prompts the keen form
Yet, we still remain in the realm of lightheadedness.

Involved in the keenness of engaging,
First-timers seek the ideation
Of the senses and henceforth go
In the excitement of transformation.

- Sushil Soni