By Jeffrey Subramanian
I once had striven like a little ghost
To sanctify the world; to cleanse from sin
My bloody generation – but I lost
Strength, weight, and sanity – my harrowed mind
Reacted in a frenzy to the task.
I was a shade, a specter in the rain;
A little candle in the vicious wind,
But still I kept on burning. The wax dripped
Down, way past the brass, onto the table.
Yet still I burn – though not from house to house,
But in my room, or on my kitchen table:
I write these sonnets from my little heart,
And revise them in the chambers of my mind.