Walk, walk, walk together
Walk with the questions
yet to find an answer
Walk with the song
without a roof
Walk with the pitcher
whose river has vanished
Walk with the last leaf
of the felled tree
Walk with the consonants
of the proscribed poem
Walk with the blood
from the stab-wound
Walk, walk, along the shade
between the hare and the grass;
through the fire
between the word and its meaning
Walk in red with the sun’s dreams
Walk in black with the moon’s solitude
Walk against the wind’s direction
Walk across the water’s flow
Walk, walk,
from death to life
with a palette of colours
You are the sculptor
and you, the sculpture
Stop, and you will fall
Walk without a pause
like the Buddha leaving for Gaya
like Jesus climbing Calvary
like the Prophet hurrying to Medina
like Gandhi marching to Dandi.
Walk, walk on,
never look back.
Walk.
(K. Satchidanandan, poet, art critic, essayist and public intellectual, writes in both English and Malayalam. Courtesy: The Beacon. The Beacon is a web-based only feature magazine of writing and reading (long-form essays, fiction and poetry) that believes in confluences more than in consensus.)
