It is winter season
Ceiling fan looks
Freezing eyes –
Entreating
All round the four walls of a house
I missed
A summer voice that evening –
that with a longer tongue
Drew a thirst
Looking at a glass of cold water
Remembrance
was
No more remembrance
It was more than silence
Hawking my inner space
What I gained
Through a begging voice
Cost my past season
Never to return
This winter only
A year back
I lost a warm touch of my mother
Often you come
Rebirthing familiarity
Like a soft breeze
Morning and evening alike
Stretching on a vast plane, and
Pass by my stony pedestal
Imprinting an invisible smile
On my marble face
Reminding me, that
I have been cursed like an iconic structure-
A desert Sphinx
Roaring my naked voice
Half human, half lion
And
Recapitulating my past
I crumple down a non-entity
Knowing –
Wayfarer was I before
Wayfarer I become
Taking chance at your soft breeze
It is not strange
to mix up
the ticking sound of the second’s needle, and
that of the buzzing mosquitoes near an ear
Nothing more costs a thought
but
A slight degree of rotation, clockwise;
And flimsy noise of tiny creature
There is so much
to count our life on –
The one with the beat, and
the other with a buzz
All art, that
I worked my love with
on a piece of paper
Like a glittering embroidery
Was worth a paper boat
But I came to value it more
When
While dabbing a forward push
On an oceanic wave
The whole paper melted in oneness, and
Water turned the colour of the written text
How you take a steel glass
Upon your thirst
That has been kept
On a dining table
for so long
I have been ploughing my earth
for some time now
To let it erupt slowly
Like a seedling
From the land of thirsty desert
All quenching
Came to a halt
When knowingly
I put a wedge to my throat
Not all is thirst here
Nothing glues the sky
Slovenly and dark,
As an eclipse of the sun
Each passing moment
Holds dingy and murky past
Like an acid yellow rain
Slowly and slowly
The seconds ticks by, and
The memory fades in a huff
All wonton wishes, crumbles;
Swollen
Merry making my feet
All treasured casket
by sadness
Are in gloominess, ruled
All joy
fleet away in transitoriness
Holding lesser by my own
Go, go away
Nether to the land –
Dungeon to my chime
Elk out my strength
Meed to thy eternal faith
Where an argent moon
Upfront my silvery heart
Where an alchemist
Weave my golden wishes
Raiment to my glowing heart
Decoct the poison
Out of my unbelieving knot
Straighten my thoughts
Augury to my wide eyes
In peaceful ambience
Where all sky azure
Thousand oceans to a mirror
It is winter
No sound cuts through the
ceiling fan, unmoving by its blades
wheezing the house
All lonely, wide of eyes
It looks down upon
its past beneficiaries:
The sweating men,
The mid day school children,
Mother and perspiring wife, and
The summer guest;
Now are cuddles together
inside coldness of the house
Only a stray thought
Churning deeper inside
Come to grip the ceiling fan –
What is existentialism
But a seasonal upturn
To be free, and
Not to revolve
But to be with the switch
Sartre and its choice of freedom
He has shawled himself, nakedly
longer into this thorny chilly nights
with trembling fingers
bodily squeezed in cold grip around
Penniless he survives
the onslaught of rising inflation:
Edibles smoulder heavily and a unit
of blood costs more than a bargain
A toothless suitor to his own poverty
Pleasantly he shakes his head quixotically
Shrugging off reality from his thoughts
Believing that tomorrow, when his hospital
will charge a hefty medical bill
He will promptly reply to his doctor
wagging his tail:
Was he not in remembrance, that many a times at the construction site
He had laboured more to his hospital with sweat and salt
And demanded nothing extra
Macabre
You came shrivelled out
from the ashen world of
Apoplectic gloom –
funeral pyre, lapping the skies
Dragonian
on the western ghats of the river Ganges
That
You had made verbatim
with me
wizened by my emaciated age
That is no more; no more
to feed life
on the burning ghats
Parasol of chanting mantras
All dead, and lifeless
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