It is said that freedom is divine but
the state of being free does not mean the same
to all of us. Some are free just to be
brute, lawless and decadent even more…
Where the tropic of cancer intercepts
the right angled meridian, there is a state,
a nation sovereign for forty years,
to satiate the indulgent ruling class.
The history of her subjugation
is cruel and almost a thousand years long,
sadly though, despite the bulk nothing much
has changed for the naive subjects of the land.
They have been betrayed and duped time and again
by their native lords, greedy and prurient,
too eager to welcome even strangers
to decide their fate and abuse it too…
Unless the ruling class is fair, apt and benign,
what kind of benefit on earth can freedom bring!
Shit happens and despite
our fear of death and stagnation,
life still goes on.
Life is like the sturdy roots of humble grass,
that can outlive
the harshest of winters and droughts,
in eagerness to sprout again
from ashes of the past,
at the briefest hint of the sun
and moisture in the wind.
Yesterday I had this strangest of dreams,
where I was trekking through lord Hades’s realm,
looking for his father, the ancient lord
with a sickle in his hand, Cronus, the mighty one.
Born of mother Gaea and great Uranus,
he once held the bright sun as his throne and
as his kingdom, he had the universe,
while to Rhea he sired Zeus, Hades and Poseidon.
When these children came of age they deposed
their father, chaining him in Tartarus,
much the same what Cronus did to his own,
sending him beyond the farthest point known on the sky.
I recall wondering in that strangest of dreams,
can it be long before the reign of Apollo begins!
I am praying for the sun
to breach through the fading darkness
near the oriental horizon;
that quarter of the sky,
with a faint touch of scarlet rogue,
has been blushing for some time now.
The silent seconds pass
until a street dog starts to bark,
that echoed like a paranoid howl
up and down the dark, empty streets,
as other dogs howled in return;
then it stops as abruptly as it has begun.
Meanwhile the extent of the blush has grown, I see
and soon, I know, from my prayers the sky shall be burned.
…But there are things that can never be said aloud
or expressed in mere words, things that baffle us,
shedding doubt on the purpose of our existence
and on our final destiny as well.
When the sky is hazy with mist, not thick enough
to shroud the distant stars but heavier than the clouds,
hanging above the skyline of the cityscape,
like a muslin shawl on an urban shoulder draped,
a humid sense of emptiness engulfs my soul
as if the atoms of my being have turned
into those tiny droplets of the mist around,
flocked together but never truly one.
When the wind is tinged with the cold smell of winter,
saying, ice has begun to form on the Himalayan,
it feels as if a frost has bitten through my soul
and even angels cannot save me from the fall.
Baffled, all my strengths and virtues seem as meaningless
as my sins and weaknesses, in the final call.