SPARE ME MY
FOLLY
Prof. P. P. SHARMA
I would you rather
took my life
than the last shred
of my folly.
I’m not left with
much that I can
let go of this.
Huge chunks have
been cut away–
only spare the nerve:
the anchor of my selfhood.
In the hard blinding glare
the shadows are shrivelling up,
no sooner are the spirits
perched than are driven away
or beaten up like game.
Where do they go
for replenishment?
Amid the brown churned-up waters
the little green island
like a fragile leaf
is terribly shaking.
If this too goes
I’m done for.
The god I have laboured
to create
will fall dead
with all the splendour
I have put into him
if you, my analytical friend,
strip me of the remnant
of my illusion
which keeps me human.