Night. Day.
In the murmur of sleep and awakening,
From the pitch dark all around:
A hint of a recurring dream,
Glides like a blue dove.
The bird circles in The Abyss.
Here on earth…
The Abyss has been my living grave.
I live and die in The Abyss:
Night. Day.

 

Sometimes, my recurring dream
Leaves behind faint traces of hope,
In explained, unexplained words.
Then, out of dark pall,
The Abyss is a rosy blush.
The Abyss is where a candle glows.
The Abyss calls me by my name –
With love and understanding.
The Abyss is another place!
The Abyss is no longer cold in my grave…

 

November 2012

                          

Geeta Chhabra