There is fire in the marrow,
it does not rest,
it scatters the gathered treasure
it feeds on silence
and grows deeper with every breath.
The night has a voice—
storm-tongued, relentless,
it presses against my ribs,
against the fragile walls of thought.
Ash gathers in the bossom,
not visible to eyes,
hollow but heavy,
like a stone that derides to move.
Even prayer fractures—
each word falls back, unanswered,
echoing in a rippled sky.
And yet—
through the breaking nerves
through the shadows that never sleep,
a small ember remains,
a mellowing morrow,
that promises not to vanish.
Composed by
Manoj Kumar Mishra
