Restless, the sea calls. I smell the sea.
Tired of writing words,
I just want to sleep. A sleepwalker dreams
a dream of walking on the waves of the sea.
The salty air, the smell of fish,
the rocks whose bosom cradles the surf,
and the rain carrying the steamy air,
every night like a haunted soul
I wake up to their call.
A rowboat tied to a log,
I feel the tug of the sea.
Recall the changes in the shades of blue,
and I surrender the rhetoric of the empty words to the endlessness,
the rhythm of the gorge of the sea.
The irony of the madness of the urge to sing
in the presence of a vast tide of an awesome dream,
the dream when the madness is swallowed by the quietude of the sea.
Sushama Karnik
May 30, 2017
Image; Courtesy Marc Lafontan
Tired of writing words,
I just want to sleep. A sleepwalker dreams
a dream of walking on the waves of the sea.
The salty air, the smell of fish,
the rocks whose bosom cradles the surf,
and the rain carrying the steamy air,
every night like a haunted soul
I wake up to their call.
A rowboat tied to a log,
I feel the tug of the sea.
Recall the changes in the shades of blue,
and I surrender the rhetoric of the empty words to the endlessness,
the rhythm of the gorge of the sea.
The irony of the madness of the urge to sing
in the presence of a vast tide of an awesome dream,
the dream when the madness is swallowed by the quietude of the sea.
Sushama Karnik
May 30, 2017
Image; Courtesy Marc Lafontan
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Jun 4, 2017 
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