Friday, February 6, 2009


Few years back a friend gave me the book 'Hundred Years of Solitude' to read and some how the after effect was a deep despair. I do not remember what led to it but do remember, that evening when I completed the book I wrote 5 poems which all had that sense of despair. I'm writing here the one which seemed to have it less.

I am,
since time was not,
And universe unconceived.
This solitude-
An infinite spread of me.
Born out of me.
Leaves and grasses-
more of me.
Time created,
The circle moves
Into another circle,
Into endlessness.

In every creation
I'm all alone
The fog deeper,

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