How we turn deadman before we know?

We are all born as dead. We all dream what other dreamt, we all aspire what other aspire, we all breathe what other breathed. While the deadman comes to life the living become dead. It is an oxymoron, a contradiction like Shroedinger's famed Cat, it is neither alive nor dead...

Monday, August 18, 2008

Silence of words

Words conjures everything, even the silence, the imperturbable silence at the end of world, where you stand alone, wind gushing in silence. Sometime I wake up pertrified with the horror of being marooned in the abyss of space, floating in absolute silence. What you feel all through your life with sounds of first cry to the squel of death, words, words and words. All my trifle life is spent only to apprehend, grasp, get hold of the chaos of words. Silence is after all imagination. If you are not a space-traveller, if you are not deaf, if you are not dead how can you ever know the silence. Gibberish, till you read this poem:
The drenched trees stand
like parenthesis without words.
Words not conceived
Words not worded
Syllables without sound
Sound without pitch.
The phonetics of wind,
The phonemes of rain,
Alludes to signified and the signifier.
In between silence and sound
falls the shadow of the sky
the tilde.
Words are gesture of silence
Writ in braille.
The foundry of wet grass
The fonts of the bark
The treadle of the wind
Prints the silence of the God.

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