Shiva’s trident glitters gold
as the sun trickles over the Shivalik Hills
and a new day breaks over the Ganges.
The terrors of Terra’s trembling
toppling temples and towers in Kathmandu,
destroying lives and hopes, has left no marks
on the rising of the dawn.
A friend is incommunicado.
And here too a minor earthquake
in the liminal spot between one paradigm and another
the shifting of a tectonic plate
that has been rubbing and grumbling for far too long.
Inner houses and temples, beliefs and attachments
so sturdy in semblance, crumble once again.
A companion has become incommunicado,
unavailable to touch or sense or mind.
Do we build anew, or do we remain in the blissful
open air? Why build again that which only crumbles?
What are we going to write now
on the few blank pages that remain
in the book of Thanatos?