THAT WHICH GOES UNSAID...

She stood counting the beads. Each bead a year. Each scar a war. The dusty smoke pilfered life. The bronze sweat reflecting windows                                                         that did not look out. Under the dance of lights Stood a lifetime of mayhem Under the riot of colours blurred monochrome memories It took lifetime of scar and s c a t t e   r  e d beads, to witness the northern lights to empty whatever she earned.

The fire in the kitchen tent had gone out. The moon was still behind the mountain in the east. Just a snow covered peak to the west, faintly shone with the pale glow from a fragment of light. The darkness that stretched below him, in front of him and at the back of him was solid----almost with no beginning or no end. Only if he looked up, could he see a sky dazzling with dots of light. His personal source of light, a three cell torch, lay cold and unlit beside him. He was sitting on a flat slab of stone, quite a few meters below the other tents. It was almost nine thirty at night, quiet an unholy time, going by the chill that had already set in. But it was holy, almost pious, he felt. Rest of his friends had gone to sleep and he had the silent valley all to himself. If one could see into his eyes at that time, all one could see was plain wonder, of amazement, of fulfillment...yet of a strange madness. His mind was full of thoughts that crawled its way out of nowhere and which perha