Long past

mid day

the shore

is a slender

glistening arm

felt by

the white foamy

tongue

of perfect sea.

Mirror in hand

a dwarf moves

one foot at a time

among pilgrims

prophesying

the apocalypse.

There is no death

for the birds of winter.*

No cemeteries.

In the warm navel

of the sea

from a time before god

a wind

stitches perpetually

one moment

and the other

at precise ruptures.

From the lithe grove

of the afterglow

the dwarf

reappears and vanishes

with his crafts of

ancient voyages

crashing on the waves

in one sudden rush.

The procession of pilgrims, on reaching the sea, sings in unison, no epitaph is worth the dead, no buried ever remembers his name, or hers, the winds are blowing all the clouds away, over the lighthouse and the dusk, over the ships and the masts, the night of cicadas, the night of disquiet, is waiting like a pirate of pure lore, waiting for glory, at these hours waves upon waves, I call myself by my name.

2007

* I chanced to read this line among graffiti and bill boards at Fort Kochi, in December 2007, though the author of this line remains anonymous to me.

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