I look down to see my own reflection,

In the fields of raw earth and dust, replaced

By glistening marble. And I wonder,

At the transparent, all-telling sea, Erased.


There used to be upon this ground, poetry;

Of dead leaves and new fresh fruit,

Singing of ends that harbor perennially,

 Boundless tunes, from mother birth’s flute.


And even through clouds, stark dark nights

The foliage reverberated with sight,

And revealed within the unwavering black

“As dusk arrives, so does starlight”.


The open space of reason that stood,

And yet let fly has now made way,

For swarms of skeletons huddled together,

Within walls, yet cast away.


In looking up from my boxed desk,

A last Image flashes by,

Of the erstwhile tree that spoke when quiet

That “history shades, But I won’t deny,


When man grows enough to assume

That he shall race and pass me by,

Beneath the same ceilings and uniform rooms,

He shall realize his lost, endless sky.”


Shiksha Singh
PGP 22