UNSEEN PROSE AND POETRY

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The goldsmith at work is a priest at the altar . As though he was were performing the Eucharist, he is engaged in deliberate motions of reverence. The small vials of various liquids such as mercury are little vessels of communion wine. The minuscule rings of intricately crafted gold are like miniature wafers.
He dips one tiny ring into a liquid, lifts it up to the sky and presses it onto a space in the growing length of necklace. It fits- it is like dipping bread into wine and slipping it between the parted lips of a communicant.
Our lent vigils are not as solemn as the goldsmith's silent solemnity that directs his work. We look on as the wizardry of the master matter craftsman displays itself. We are held in thrall....

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At dawn must I rise to till the rock
That our land has turned into
The land where on we'd gleefully harvested paddy
Planted and nurtured and tended on plots marshy
Our woes are bloody woes of accursed revenges
Of the land spirits aggrieved and by his fellow
Kindred blood has counted for less than no value
Brother's wife has been wife to other brother's brother
Communal loot has emptied our country silos
The earth has stooped breathing and sighed
Soldered tears has the moon shed
The earth was scorched at noon-day night
And our land has turned to hoeing rock.