Realisation

Shut up in the bronze prison of his horizon
He sees no lands or seas that lie beyond his vision
But only the languid wisps of factory smoke
That steal up the sprawling stairs of the blue
And shuddering wings of cold birds strike his view.

Is there nothing there, he says, and nothing beyond
As he shivers in the cold of a wintry dawn
Jostled by streams of traffic which evoke
One recurring thought “Are they all oblivious
That each road leads to the same hiatus.”

Perhaps they know but pretend to be unaware
Of the great hiatus in the dead’s hemisphere
(Each keeping a clock but stifling its stroke)
Immersed in the chiaroscuro of their tide
They have mustered the art of being preoccupied.
–ASHOK MAHAJAN