Echoes of a Distant Thunder





Sky was a curvature of serenity,

Hills stood a pinnacle of ethereal question marks,

Trees shamed you in their pregnant silences,

Roads had no destination.


People reacted with instinctual simplicity,

Sighs and pains were a gift of god,

Not to be manipulated,

But accepted with grace and poetry.


When was it that I went last to my village,

That oasis of calm and frivolous passion,

An island of unasked for freedom,

A sustained awake-dreaminess.


I live in a city now, a cloister of inhibitions,

A grill for instincts and intuitions,

An effete existence,

Adulterated nature.


I have nothing left,

But the world’s soulless concerns,

Yet the echo of the distant thunder,

Sometimes lifts the dark halo – momentarily.



Suffern, New York, September 29, 2017




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