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This is an arid place where neither prayer
Nor poetry can plumb the nothingness:
Forsaking understanding sought by those
Who practise countless spiritual techniques
To spur a beat horse: there is death and absence
In the soul. No basis for revival,
Direction is outfaced and creed confounded.
All travelling stopped, the pilgrim lies in wait,
Alert, as when the soldier stays his place,
Looks out for sniping in a mapless zone.
Unable to advance nor yet retreat,
Fixed in a dreadful lock mid life and death.
All rescue lies outside his governance.
He also prays when still and silent - waits.
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