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!
Guess, I wanted to be a god in my previous life!
I, a mere mortal fool, with the audacity
to desire an abode and everlasting peace
atop Mount Olympus, Kailash, Fuji, Sinai
or any other name one calls it in their mother’s tongue!
In the beginning, like a proper fool, I thought,
I was destined to become the winged god of Love,
until I saw, two things were missing from the scene –
the bow and those little, sweetly poisoned darts, dipped in
the wild passion that proudly runs through his fair mother’s veins!
If I must have a bow, I thought, why not the best,
so I set my eyes for Apollo’s golden one;
for the next while or two, it seemed to work – the pen
despite its sheer lack of potency came alive
until the very dream woke me up and muttered, good night!
Now I rule the fiery pits of hell, though not as Hades
but a mere mortal one, setting his future bed of nails,
still dreaming of a Prometheus unbound, to bring some light
unto the dark world and succeed where this mortal fool has failed!
The rancid realization clings to life,
that most of it is predefined by things
way beyond its own mere grasp, like the borders
of its origin and inheritance!
What can a life do about whence it came?
This life that responds to a certain name,
with certain aspirations held inside
a thick shell of skin with eyes, ears and limbs
and the face of a wanderer was born
with nothing, in nowhere, to oblivion!
Could it have settled down accepting the accepted norms?
But it’s way too late to wonder what could have been,
this river in spate has almost run its due course,
let this spent life pass its remaining hours wrapped in a dream!