R K SINGH
Silent flows the Ganges in Banares
the muddy water and mud accumulates on roads
each house harnesses the taints
no matter, how many sacrifices of blood
each temple shelters Satan’s friends
even after centuries the muck stinks
on both sides convenience of culture
cuddles the self-turned waves
speaking of our pride, my obsession
straight through the bones of the living
their crooked simplicity and polished
innocence
treachery, vanity, ranting
always washed in the fast current?
or the rod of time is impotent?
like the river I see untiringly
(though it hardly flows like the Ganges in
life)
it’s unsleeping eyes looking upward.