A log of dead wood

A LOG OF DEAD WOOD

Nobody knocks at my door
these days,
no one even peeps through their windows.
Only a newspaper hawker,
and a blood-splattered morning
with a reddish sun greet me.

My body has become a log of
dead wood.
Birds still chirp at times
from their cage,
but the voice too is cracked,
wounded.

Where are those dangling
limbs of trees?
Where are the leaves?
No nest I can find in me,
feathery birds fly away from me
Only hollow houses remain,
their eyes closed,
their hearts enclosed.
No passage can I see.

All the roads connecting eyes
to nostrils, to lungs,are narrowed
or blocked.
No room left for air.
Gasping for breath, the earth itself searches for an oxygen parlour.

The sky looks like a vulture,
snatching away dead bodies
to satiate hunger.
Wherever my eyes go, only burrows, snakes, reptiles,
but no human beings.
Whom shall I ask:
Where is our good earth?


 (Dr.Prahallad kumar satapathy )