That fear from past is still there
Clinging on to me as the red soil
Stuck into the cracks of a wet sole
Never leaving me, even with the tip of a midrib
Or with the rough surface of a washing stone.
Though I live in a set of make-belief stories ,
Of my own boldness and courage,
That fear from past is still there.
Time has already gone a little ahead
To shout at them those cumulated words
That, ‘open your eyes, I too have a heart,
Loosen your hands, I have my own feet
There’s more to do from dawn to dusk
Than blowing into a dying hearth
With a broken grease tinged oily pipe’.
Words have a sweet shade of freedom
Yet carry that viscous pain of fear
Leaving me silent at the face of destiny
And I agree, the fear from past is still there.