Rites of Passage

by Prakash Kona


Deserts swimming in
    the night of veils,
The only wall is of
    heaven touching sands,
On the other side of blue
    is paradise where the eye
Is free of betrayals
    coming as dreams;
My home is moonlight
    and heart a mirror
That speaks truths of histories
    under a bed of thorns,
Soldiers crossed paths
    never returning,
The wars too long,
    you get used to the face
Of the enemy no more
    or less than a name,
So familiar by now
    ready to be forgotten;
The face behind veils seeping
    with the lamp
Fading out — a tremor
    rocks the ear
With prognostications
    of a delicate perfume
From a hand that held
    a bowl of rice;
The incalculable trait
    in my makeup,
The nomad refuses to settle
    in plains,
Rejects the impedimenta of being,
Embraces abstractness of birth,
Of leaving places,
    the memory free
Of nostalgia for dawns;
For peace I long as much as
    eyes that see how
Lost I can be without reason;
Language is traumatizing,
Things neither appear nor disappear
    because the word has been said,
An arrow through the breast is purification
    for the king to be a king;
The king is a cup that
    falls
        on the ground
    leaving no trace
Of splinters behind,
He simulates travails of a mother
    as in practice of couvade,
Normalcy is not for the king,
His body is the useless strain
That makes one long for beauty and love;
Self-styled but not self-preserving,
    dust born of dust is my nature;
I’m a cloak-and-dagger heroine
    a weeping unicorn is my love;
The curious, brooding faces of the homeless
Sucks the marrow of Imagination’s bone;
It is not death that stands at the doors
Of philosophy but labors
    of those who pine
For wisdom that pain makes possible
In the chiaroscuro of an instant.


Copyright © 2006 by Prakash Kona

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