DIRGE

by

Durlabh Singh

I was the dead man’s dirge
With slow knocks at windowed ledge
Where lamp is scattered in shadowy deep
In fulcrums of the armed reflective sleep.

Let a cut winged silverian bird
Unheralded to throw a beveled edge
Of huey arrows across the chasm
In deep oblivioned glaciered ledge.

Binding the hands to the limpid arms
Holding the noose the rope and the corn
I was the dead man’s dire dirge
Drowning the scales of the distant surge.

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