by Sonnet Mondal
When I read a book of poems
I try to think of the moment
when the first flow of thoughts
gushed through its pages.
When I hear a music album
I try to think of the moment
when the first note
of the first track in it
kissed the muse of its roots.
When I walk barefoot,
pressing ageless soils and gravels—
I try to think of the moment
when the earth was reared from ashes.
But never do they recite
the first anecdote of the planet.
My head like a shapeless asteroid
revolves around beginnings—
to peer inside
the static stance of time
and the state of mind
that sets it in motion.