How long will we live behind the veil of illusion
Waiting for the miraculous transition
To free us from our self-imposed prisons
As says Camus, a writer by ramification.
We might be the prisoners of time,
Dashedly insensitive, with fading verve
And a shaky vitality, neither sought
Nor solicited, suffering resiliently.
We don’t have to go to vertiginous heights
To see how man is fretting and fuming
Like the oceans lost in their own tides.
We need neither fine choreography
Nor calculated cinematography
To depict sanity versus lunacy.
The world is going mad and sad.
Nothing is working out to enoble
The human spirit, neither aged proverbs
Nor allegories and not even poems bearing
The stamp of poets’ indelible acumen.
Stars collide and out of their crashing
New worlds are formed, said Charlie Chaplin.
Down here brothers are colliding against brothers
Deforming what has been formed by forefathers.
And the rest of the world
Is so indifferent.
It is an indifference that hurts.