Over the eastern hills,

Above lines of part felled tree trunks,

Who once stood tall in resistance

Now left without epitaphs;

Right across the edge of the extending forest,

Where trees branches stand out like progeny of defiance,

Heavy skies overburdened with grey clouds,

Embracing peaks in open arms,

And in robes of white that were coronated overnight.

As the light go bleak and as clouds limit our views,

Darkness weighs over smokeless chimneys,

And barricades extend over spreading habitations

A faint ray drops over the valley.

On one distant but somber peak a cloud broke,

Opening up a slant of light

As if heavens were peeping down from a micro mosaic,

As if a child had pushed open a small windowsill,

Having just woken from a deep slumber,

And gazing at this world through sleepy eyes

As if starved eyes of the deprived,

Were forcing open skeletal eyelids,

 After a long drawn and frightening dark night;

Filtering briefs of sunlight from the corners of old creaky lattices

That had been overrun by cobwebs of hopelessness in chains of centuries.

Back home by the Kings decree,

Hope and light have been declared ‘untraceable’

Hence all windows have been ordered to be closed,

Habitations forced to dark dungeons.

He probably visualizes not what we see,

He believes not in judicatory of the divine,

He holds not to the hand of God.

By the edge of the peaks where the steadfast mountains stand tall,

Where hands in branches raise fists in resistance;

A window of light tearing from within obfuscous clouds lay open for the believer.

And I believe.

~S~

1st Dec, 2012

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