The timbre of a crying dog burning in the distances,
unsettling like unknown
like the anticipation of aches
like the Simulating Water smothering a fresh wound of fire.
A plot of pendency
on the groundwork
Something that ties me to impossible distances;
goblet of an evening
filled with the red wine of burning timber
Like a strand of some arms
suspending from another space,
like a crimson lasso,
only for me
from another world
of such crimson ora.
Something albeit seemingly unknown
it goes all-out to recall its reminiscence,
to call-out its knowingness, its selfhood
in a grand scheme of collective patterns.
An inevitable portray,
neither pending on your pen to be drawn
nor the motif of that portray
but an intent, that like a seed
must with the drill bits
softer than cotton balls
through rocks and stones,
a draft, penned with
"lime juice" between the lines of these lanes, roads..., neighbourhoods,
pages after pages in the vast library towns,
things that only fire would reveal their meaning,
their designs. (1)
Something that expands
ceaselessly and vigorously in space
that as long as it is spatial,
its journey wouldn’t end,
for as long as it expands,
it is incomplete,
and as long as it is able to lament
it is not fulfilled,
something in it is not concluded.
But as long as it is able to lament
someone out there is going to hear
someone is going to weep, to connect.
So it goes on lamenting
to no end.
Though it only expands
to contract again,
examining endless keyholes
on the keyboards
the door key
to the tune
The political prisoners use to write their work between the lines of books and letters, with the tip of safety pins, by using lime juice instead of ink. The written part appeared blank in the eyes of the inspections, though when it was safe, out of the prison, by heating those blank spots, (usually between the lines) with lighter or iron, the invisible lines started to appear. That is how so many important books was written.