In this beginning , Brahma created a cataclysm. 

 

The pyroclastic ash shrank from the consumption of darkness. 

 

Downward they fell,

 

a shower of ravens, dying, inky, still

 

yearning for food. They waited for eighty centuries. 

 

Mother India roared 

 

into Brahma's ear canal, furious, animalistic.

 

Nothing was the same then. The earth danced like a 

 

chalice of crystal in a brass casing - 

 

it quivered, fractured,  spiraling into stray shards,

 

burrowing in the eyes of the masses, into Brahma's. 

 

Contrition is never to late but often, 

 

there are too many glass

 

bits lodged in your throat that it won’t articulate convincingly.

 

Brahma with the shards irising his sight, was seeing

 

mastodons. Majestic beasts of his own make,

 

ebony hide strong, yet silk soft like memory.

 

Brahmas existence unreeled in his neural view, which is to say, he

 

was witnessing the end of everything. A child was

 

sobbing in that closing chapter. Her tears flowed because

 

nothing would be the same. I shed tears because everything 

 

would be the same. So it goes.

 

Brahma created you.

 

Your sighs carried whiffs of sweet jasmine, your crown adorned

 

with silk. You looked like a memory. I wanted to call out your name

 

but I knew it wouldn't make you turn, for you were

 

all that was left in the world, meaning nothing was left of me.

 

Meaning Brahma was absent in it, or perhaps

 

in this universe you were Brahma.

 

I knelt at your shrine and prayed.