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Poetry of Issue #8        Page 30

The Vernacular of Poetry

The vernacular of silence cannot be heard by ears which are profoundly ringing by the overwhelming tunes of lofty desires. Silence has no shape and a beautiful shape at the same time. It can fit itself in the trickiest of places. It can strip itself of any facades and stand stark naked in front of you and still, you can not trace it. Sometimes it lives surreptitiously on the edges of the serrated palm leaves bathed by the shifty-eyed moon. The hushed whispers of the moon cleave a story out of the night's cleavage. The balmy wind carries the whispers under the thick layers of the drapes. We all have a story to tell but only a few can interpret the silence. Silence culled in the bones can birth a rattling symphony for generations to tell. Sillence culled in the twisted boughs of the wild oak. An unwanted witness to the miseries of mankind. A silent giant. Sometimes nature has its own lexicon of spoken and unheard. You just need the right pair of ears to listen to. Like the turbulent story of an ocean in roughly carved layers of the conch. I can still hear the waves if I press my ears too close to it. Nature is humming a sweet lullaby. Only a few can hear it. Silence and death are interchangeable the moment you part your lips.

       Megha Rani