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.
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