How I longed to be as free as those clouds,
wandering thoughtlessly in the gentle breeze,
from the vast oceans to high mountain peaks,
the world is a planet without borders for them.
Being a human, since I was born, my wings
have been clipped by the norms of civic life,
strained with the immense weight of blossoming
but now the heavy chains will soon disintegrate.
Soon I can unfurl my wings once again
and fly across the endless stretch of blue,
until I can hear the freedom calls, finally,
with the angel designate blowing his fierce horn.
Then the universe, as we know, shall cease to be
and with its conscience, I too shall be free at last!
Through her unfretted love for me
despite all my crudities and white lies,
I know what God’s divine love ought to feel,
sustaining the spectrum of His creation.
From her forgiving look I know,
that God has created us in His own image,
well, perhaps not those monsters that we see
but the face of mothers, most certainly.
O God, be Thou utmost gracious and kind
to our mothers in their declining age and beyond!
O God, the Merciful, be more caring to them
than they were to us in our helpless infancy!
“Where is your urge to live?”, The mirror asked
with silent words that almost made me deaf.
What could I have said in response? Of late,
I too have wondered through the night, in vain,
searching for it across my universe
and I have left not a single stone unturned.
The mirror, too relentless, asked again,
as if it could not hear the silent scream
of agony from my null and void mold,
rather obsolete for the current scheme.
I turn away from the mirror, just as I have
turned away from all the grand illusions of life,
and I don’t expect it to comprehend my state
or the fact that I have an urge to die, instead.
One score and fourteen years ago,
the life that began in humble steps
on tiny limbs, unaccustomed
to the unjust ways of the world,
appears so frail and old of late,
as if a thousand years had passed
since life first opened its baffled eyes;
some time it feels as if they truly have!
When nothing changes except just the face
or the creed of the oppressor,
for as long as the history
of humankind can remember,
it is easy to age in centuries,
instead of mere days, months or even years.
An awkward silence engulfs the conscience
of the world. Fourteen years into
the twenty first century, the world is no more
concerned about the fate of zero point
one eight billion self-indulgent,
blind souls, there are larger markets to worry for,
instead and why the world should even care
when the souls themselves do not;
what profit might worries grant the world, in return!
So, in that awkward silence, let us rot
for as long as our souls remain
indifferent to anything beyond our lives,
like animals, to breed, sire and to die at last!
So long let these words be hidden beneath the dust!