Time of onset of ache,
of head lowering itself
to bind the thighs fast
you have in your hands
the rope

In my hands the sword;
and an inner strength
to stand in a skyless
expanse
and conceive swallowing
the lightning
Don't be elated I've
quietened down
it isn't sleep but meditation
not retreat but biding
one's time

Times that grey your hair
are waiting to be torn
in the plucking of my
Veena's strings

My flag flies
beyond the horizon.