In the oblivion, there is the violence of silence: A poem 

I feel like an ancient mountain 

that climbs to its own peak 

like a wooded forest 

that self-nourishes its every tree 

And I am able to say 

the ability of self-realisation is honour 

That sacrifice is beyond recognition 

A gratification that needs no acknowledgement 

Talent is not alone proven in the materialisation of fame  

Bravery is all too sublime 

needing no victory to validate it 

And sometimes, solitude is a solution 

Sometimes, oblivion brings self-assuredness 

like planets that don’t possess borrowed shine 

but generate their own heat and light 

You can be ready to wage war 

with the knowledge that, ultimately, 

closure is poetic justice 

Yet would we want any justice at all   

from misbegotten powers 

Even if destiny is only Varuna’s Rta 

of being in the right place at the right time 

I think the fodder of non-expectation is the right food 

And I feel the self-worthiness of good 

in the unending tribulation from treachery 

There is a wisdom in accepting a hell 

Even if you want to yell: 

Look what they did to me! 

Because these wounds have the wisdom of the silent violent 

who understand that passivity is sublime victory