They too flew in rainbow wings-
my own youthful dreams.
There were those who inspired me
with loving blessings:
You too have space in
the horizons of poesy.
There were those
who despaired ever:
we have been looking for you
in every literary havens.
Yet, as I hurriedly ventured my yacht
into the troubled seas
with rebel's prowess,
I forgot my benevolent teachers.
In the death-wish of
one who indulges himself
in curses, I gave up
on my dream- children.
In days to be nurtured
under milk-ducts, they
were bruised by affronts
of the streets.
Now, after decades
I try to take in
my cast-away kids
into my ghost house.
My ghost house, ever afflicted,
overtly and covertly,
by memories of ship-wrecking seas.
Corridors of veins wherein
poison smokes have infested
along with mates of dismal days.
Shades of the schizoid
haunted by slaughters far away
raging as blood streams.
They turn me out as outsider
in apathy of the thrown-outs,
it's not easy: reunion with
those severed long before.
They don't mince words:
exchange value of what I amassed
are of bygone days:
Street-grown are blunt enough.
As I try to regain, in broken lines,
my skies are overwhelmed
by dark clouds of nightmares.
Shrieks tear it up as thunderstorms.
Seeds face feticide
in soil too hard for roots.
The curse of the unborn ever
as undying amber, within.
Who would absolve him,
who has no one to blame?
What is the harshest reckoning
if not what one did to himself?
No comments:
Post a Comment