Thursday, February 13, 2014

Walking A Thirst

Seeing a shiny pond in the expanding sandy field
my thirst walks on and on never reaching there.

Unfolding my palm
I stare once again at Van Gogh's ear
severed, and smeared with blood.
A floodgate of laughter opens abruptly
and a conviction crumbles.
Every time with the crumbled conviction
I find myself dead.

Bearing myself on the shoulder
I attempt to climb up
the concrete mountain of this town,
its summit dissolving into smoke and dust,
but I find myself falling down,
down from my own shoulder.
And with every fall
I die unidentified in the crowd of share-market.

but after every death
I come back to re-birth.
Look at my rebirth in the eyes
of a small kid going to the fair
or on the tender bud sprouting
on one side of a tree-stump.

Even from the icy land
I come back a swallow
looking for the Spring of love.
But my every moment is insecure.
Will you give me shelter in your eyes?

Ah! My thirst walks on and on...

[Published in Indian Literature-228]

No comments:

Post a Comment