The Duck Pond

A dry afternoon.
The pond holds the sky’s clear image,
waiting for ripples,
for a breath of motion.
From afar
I saw your transparent blue eyes—
a vision that crossed
from this shore to that.
Nothing left to interpret.
And who dares to say: stop,
pause here a moment?
No one.
We no longer stand still
for anyone.
We move forward—
unstirred.
The pond now silent,
its water unshaken.
Skin smooth as lotus leaves,
emotionless,
hollow of heart.
In Baishakh heat,
fights and quarrels flare.
Our blind eyes
see no inner life,
no family, no kin—
all gaze fixed,
like a heron-monk
by the pond’s edge.
I thought there was tenderness
in those eyes—
but beneath the water
fish shadows trembled.
And when my gaze
fell into yours,
motionless, confessing love,
suddenly the heron’s beak
pierced downward.
A single wave rose.
The killing took place.
And then silence—
the stillness of a cremation ground.
Those clear blue eyes—
of the killer.
We do not stop anymore;
each walks ahead,
choosing peace
over witness.
Inside the water,
fish scatter in terror,
justice by tooth and fin.
Above—
the pond serene,
transparent as glass.
In the motionless noon
ducks glide with grace,
while gods stand distant,
watching
from the far edge of the sky.