Rajnish Mishra is a poet, writer, translator and blogger born and brought up in Varanasi, India and now in exile from his city. His work originates at the points of intersection between his psyche and his city. He edits PPP Ezine and writes at https://rajnishmishravns.wordpress.com/
Death: a word, a set of symbols; a trigger to an avalanche alive, with each breath, inhaled and exhaled. The avalanche of thoughts and images; Rolling down the slopes of past. How common and how strange, is being born to die! Losses, past, mere outlines that the present fills with colours, throwing light on the dark, unseen, un-visited land. Life speeding top-speed towards the end, eyes closed, opened just before collision.
The faceless, fateless, nameless ones haunt me, follow me everywhere. Pain, physical, material, becomes one with existence, borne with valour, smiling. I wish we’d never met and I had never seen the naked, ruthless, vulgar truth. The dastardly, cunning me, who found ways to forgive the sin committed in cold blood, simulated impotence comfortably. Time, the greatest playwright, re-uses the hackneyed plot, performed with tiny alterations, with changed faces each time. The end never changes. It’s always the same: The end.
Poetry remains alive, or the poet, in suffering too, and hope. I can see that. Tell me some more about hopeful suffering, for me it's new. I'm suffering, as always, bravely, foolishly, like I've always done.