Bullrushes and Blowguns A wanton imprecision in personal derision     enrages the wavering mind and wounds the open heart. No surgery is this devastation, a spreading blast that shatters     cherished self-conceptions and erases cosmic art. No physician beneath an orange glow would Hippocrates betray,     take joy in the blowgun of a preacher's emotional dart. For love of evil does the new unreal sky shelter a moment's eternity of pain, while waving fronds of bullrushes on the Nile lend ear to a cherub's throbbing refrain.

Manish Vij