Cross On One’s Own Shoulder

We had met
On the threshold of a dream
Or in the sprawling hall
Of torturous silence
Of sleepless moments.

Only if chandeliers of memory
Are lighted
Will I ever know where!
All scenes get blurred in darkness.

Words, dots, dashes,
Only if they emerge from the underworld of meaning
Perchance, perhaps then
A forest of meaningfulness
Might grow from the desert womb
Of sterile writings.
Clouds form in azure-blue chalice of the sky.

Indeed, who should I ask about it?
Countless sessions of wasted worship
In the cavernous depths
Of one’s own inner self……
who will ever account for it?
Who will decode
The text of moth-eaten pledges?

Did we ever meet each other
Who will know?

(1976, Translated by Dr. satyapal Anand)