SERMON
- P C K Prem (India)
I have read long
Fragments in figures
separate,
Fissures appearing each
time
Heralding birth of a new
Guru.
A new religion.
It is my despair that
speaks
To refugees,
Running amuck in search
Of a home,
In their own homeland
Made violent. And each
Breathing injects a
Scorpion.
It spreads a net to catch
a man without pieces.
But such a finish good is
not found
In a super bazaar where
Jeans are stitched on
payment
for any size.
It is a measured beauty on
a canvas,
Where a grain of rice
Peeps out and laughs
To tell a tale alive,
Without an epilogue.
Here one piece collects
Gathers dust on a canvas
Drenched in colours of
Separation to join a total
Guru,
Who sparkles on jewels.