the life, the scene, the heat and voice
have nestled-dead in these lifeless lines
the leaping ibex can not move
its legs are frozen in the lines
inside the rock
the swaying top of what is a tree
bent by a wind we can not feel
has also frozen in the rock
the man who drew these lines is dead
he might, by now, have forgotten
that once while he was off to China
at a beautiful place, along the path
beneath the castle of a Mir
he had inscribed some random lines
He may not know, may never know
those lines are now "sacred " for some
and if, by chance, he comes to know
he would descend,
right from somewhere
holding a metal in his hands
first he would laugh
and laugh again
laughing at the holiness lust
of men,
the crown of creation
and then he would
draw some more skewed lines
another set of images
forming another "sacred rock"
« return.