Owning land has always confounded me; nay,
not owning but the concept, I should say,
for all my entitlements are contested, not owned!
Still, I hope it does not disqualify
me from having a petty word or two,
for I have seen the desire for more cows and land
making a Titan out of almost everyone –
brothers, sisters, fathers and mothers too.


Wherever one stands it would seem as if
the ground below their proud feet and the sky above
are theirs, from mother Gaea and father Uranus,
respectively. Each as ruthless as Ares and
more adept than Loki at cunning and deceit!


All for what, I have no idea, not that we live
past a hundred years at best and even then
around one third of the time we are either
growing up or decaying to be on a par with Death!


History as ancient as the first words
and the trail of burnt clay and human bones
from the preceding time are full of violent tales
of our desire that grows like a cancer,
in the name of greatness, both great and small.


Even when we invented laws and then guards,
the influence and its projection too were reformed
to suit the need of those who held the sway,
with power or wealth or sometime with both;
the sway holds a charm to make its holders alike.


In the west, the wealthy are said to be the powerful
but the powerful are the wealthy in the east,
though all for what, I cannot tell, not that we need
any land for good unless we want to be buried
and even then three and a half of arm’s length would suffice!


A Blank Page

A Blank Page

And here we are, back at scribbling on a blank page,
me and some broken dreams, long dead;
more than one, decomposed down to their skeletons.


The heap of crumpled pages grow like algaes
around the banks of a moribund pool;
the blackish water nourishing that growth is me!


Bathing in the moonlit breeze of sweet March,
the astray dogs grow silent for a while,
relieved of their worries of staying alive,
until their memories, with a vengeance, return.


And here we are, trying to scribble out the blankness of a page –
some broken feathers and an inkwell, almost dry.
Perhaps some pages are meant to remain that way
as this empty soul without a purpose to its wretched life!