Tuesday, January 29, 2008

The unstrung bow

Timid thoughts, do not be afraid of me. I am a poet. - Stray Birds, Tagore

These silent thoughts,
ruffling behind my closed eyes
like pretty feet
running behind closed doors...

Where do they go?
Whence do they come
What do they say
in their footsteps of silence?

How do they stand
and stare at the sky,
while i scratch my head
in the grind of the night

How do they dream
of dreams and sleep,
while i stroll along
listening to the street lamps

How do they run
over the hills; under the dale,
while my feet stay
grounded to the clay

How do they speed
arrows to an unknown target,
while my mind lies
an unused bow

Arrows have sped.
The bow lies on the ground.