prism of silence

it is one Pravin
wherein hundred Pravins breath
and which are apart from the notions
of narrator and hearer

the fallacy of words
weaved by these teller and listener
composes numerous Pravin
which we see
which we touch
and finally laugh
asserting that ‘it is’
‘yes it is’

sticking in the teeth of eater
one Pravin is crushed
somewhere in the tales
somewhere in the verses
someone would be daubing
the beauty and prominence
of this incidence

another Pravin is encashed
in the columns of balance sheets
there the mouth has lost its voice
and voices lost its strength

questioning that
with which Pravin would you like to be
prophets extract guru-mantra
from the fatigue of those strollers
and fly up high in the sky

but the earth does not flies
by flapping wings as they do
it never flies
rather it will be striking
the knifestrokes of silence ever
with the thousand colours of sensation

I always see the very Pravin
standing under the silence of bodhibriksha
who is looking exactly as the
unparalleled protagonist of Kafka
and whose actions are sceptical too

don’t know
why these helpless eyes persist
to get the warmth of some affection
from those betrayed siblings
don’t know

I cry Pravin cries
by flowing as the pus of
some unhealed injuries
in the bloody footprints of untold time

hey listen these voices
which are stuffed
in the silence of uncanny
and which are shut
in the words of unexplained.