If the two young men
Who sit and stare silently
At each other’s meal
Their eyes still and hesitant
Their lips parted and unsure
If all they share
Are wry smiles and meaningful nods
Then the two old men
Will recognize each other
And smile and nod alike
At the behest
Of a few wise men
Our air and light
Now pass through a sieve
That took eons to perfect
They dwelt on each opening
On each crevice’s use
Altering their shape and size
And monitoring my each word
As I devoured all that slipped through
Now they treat me well
For I am still of use to them
Each day, many come to see
The result of initial imperfections
And feel grateful to the wise men
Amid cheers and taunts
Of oblivious onlookers
The hunger artist honed
An obsolete craft
They all waited, but soon
Tired of waiting
Urged him to speak
And voice his cares
He – having nothing to declare
No grudge or whim to propagate
Stayed silent and watched
The voyeurs drift away
Leaving behind an elderly man
“On which day are you, my son”
“Thirty six sir, with sufficient strength left”
The old man sighed and sat before his cage
Together they waited for the voyeurs
Until they crossed the fortieth
And then walked away
In the evening
When my day begins
The promises and chastises of last night
Lie somewhere at the back
Not forgotten, but diminished
By the drone of the morning
And all I do
During the evening when my day begins
Is wait for the night
To renew the vows
That help me sleep
And survive the drone
In the beginning
Mere sustenance was an afterthought
Beside that river and under that sky
Each day we conquered all
The tides responded to his words
The clouds to the whims of his breath
The pace of his outstretched arm measured
The ascent of the sun and the moon
I – affecting nothing and no one
A reluctant bearer of truth
Just sat and heard him speak
Fearful of his touch
How well he could see the stars
But didn’t account for their delayed sparkle
A True Sentence 