The illusion appeared at times like a shadow in a well
Where one usually sees just dark water :
A child’s bright face undulating on small waves
Then dissolving and disappearing in calignosity;
Or youth’s visage luminous with enthusiasm
Or love , the adumbration of advancing age.
Like a silver coin at the bottom struck by a chance beam
Of sunlight, the only real thing, that too
Seen only as in a glass, darkly ,
Glinted Poetry, and I grasped it.
Some few others ,I saw also , pilgrims at that well . Perhaps it was Samhain. Perhaps the wild-eyed grey-haired man
Was a water- diviner, the woman in green , a witch .
It meant little to me who they were though we exchanged glances .
All I know is, amidst uncertainty,
And the not knowing of who or what was steering me where ,
If it was a steering, not a blind drift ,
Amid monstrous fears and glorious hopes,
And utter, helpless confusion, and time passing,
What I clutched at clutched me,
And like entangled crabs,neither would let go,
Nor has, till now . I chose poetry because poetry
Revealed itself, chose me, and so I live ,
And there are stars, and mossy- stoned waters, and birds, and glory, and tears.

( Amita Sarjit Ahluwalia )

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