The Gap Before We Sleep
The gap between our lying down on bed
and waiting for sleep sways like a hanging
bridge made of ropes where memories
lie beneath as river below.
They are too deep and hungry to grasp us
and too critical in their beauty
urging us every second to look down and jump.
Each night and each day before the afternoon nap
I have been crossing this bridge.
The day I will fall will be
the last day with my present.
The windmill rotates and blows in whisper
in summer nights when, even breezes are hated
in days; night posses responsibilities to
return life to road creatures and pour
vigour through window panes opened with
expectations to breathe free.
The windmill, night and sometimes rain
walks together and at times sits idle.
Both instances revolve us with thoughts
to pass the coming day with or
without manmade bits and pieces.
Each night I pray, so that it rotates
and signals the chilly coils to capture us.
Crossing the centre line one comes across
the eve where the frozen mountains
white in ice turn black and the creation around
seem to jump into a clannish dance around the bonfire,
lit up the celestial full moon.
The moon seem to stop us from lying down,
advise us in night’s seminar to sleep during day
and believe in the purity of dark and
working in scenic support of dim light.
The mighty tradition is like revising the laws
of the jungle; the reconstruction of civilizations
but, still a lingering light provokes us
to wonder about the established and think
of breaking some establishment to shift timings.