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!
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!
I bought liberty at the cost of life.
For the freedom to close my heart and eyes
on the glittering brightness of the world,
I said adieu to my remaining days.
Not necessarily though, I have died;
if one could proclaim, to breathe is living
and breaths stacked on laborious breath is life!
Do we only die with our final breath?
The desire to live is a common thing,
found in all life, static or on the run
and the desire to grow and replicate
but if that is so than from the moment
of my birth I have been barely alive,
for the ever gnawing emptiness, lodged inside!
Is it sad, unfortunate or downright ironic,
that despite all, my words, deeds and thoughts
seemed insincere and ridiculous in your eyes?
Yes I am a jester, a motley fool,
whining like a gadfly, a hunchbacked descendant
of Tiresias, Abelard, Hamlet, Faustus, Quixote,
Descartes, Rousseau, Adonis and the Fisher King
who sadly became a cross in between
J. Alfred Prufrock and Bernard Shaw;
a ridiculous mix on any page of history!
Or perhaps the faults do not lie
in my stars, as I have so far claimed
but with the peculiar instance of time
a crossroad that is yet to be named,
when the world in general, has grown to be
fond of summarily ridiculing sincere thoughts!
The final countdown has begun,
cruel winter is coming to the temple and the crown.
Feting the unweeded growth of life, I should have known
her majesty, Death, has many faces, of which
too much life is the devious one!
O sweet life, how I longed for thee
in my fretful dreams and my sleepless wanderings,
a loner, walking on the lonely path of life
and though the final hour is at hand, now I know,
blessings can be veiled ironies!
One, who has lived his entire life
in dire poverty, how fitting it is
that the tragic end of his walk should be
steeped in such filthy abundance!