After the eclipse the moon emerges,
clean but tainted.
After the devastation the psyche sings,
clear-throated, harsh.
Poetry has to do odd jobs like sweeping the cobwebs
and dressing up for the morrow.
A turbid lake begins to flow.
The rushing of fresh water into the canals;
the channels are cleared,
the healing done, poetry flows,
clean and strong.

Sushama Karnik

Thanks for the image @Milan Lakić

Milan LakićTimeline

2 days ago

Photographer-Saul Leiter