The Native Place Of The Sun

In the countries of my words
Where the sun does not set
There are only days
In which the gods
Wearing crowns of sweat
Take sun baths.
There are no starry forests
Where darkness reigns.
My eyes , when closed are sleeping apples ,
When open, my eyeballs are golden corn
Swinging on sheafs
Even my snores disturb
The sleep of the universe-
From the smoke of my wars rise
the faces of poems,
Frightened by the roar of my voice
poets that hang to the pegs of time
Fly away like crows;
When I walk, my steps are like the thunder-bolts
that gallop in the clouds;
If I lift my hand, it is a burning flame:
If I drop it is the evening
from which a thousand rays hang
My body is the eternal fire
It is the native place of the sun-
In the light that I spread
questions leave to your highways
Tread by mid-noons,
and run searching for the worlds of darkness-
The sun which ascends the horizon
every day
If I wish
I can get him to ascend my finger
As a ring –
- Seshendra Sharma

Seshendra Sharma
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