An envelope arrives unannounced from overseas
containing stark white sheets,
perfect in their presentation of absence.
Only a bold logo on top
revealed its origin, but absolutely nothing else.
I examined the sheets,
peered through their grains
heavy cotton-laid striations
concealing text, in white ink, postmarked India.
Even the watermark's translucence
made the script’s invisibility transparent.
Buried among the involute contours, lay sheets
of sophisticated pulp, paper containing
scattered metaphors uncoded, unadorned,untouched virgin lines that spill, populate
and circulate to keep alive its breathings.
Corpuscles of a very different kind —hieroglyphics, unsolved, but crystal-clear.
