K K Srivastava
05-12-2010, 03:57 AM
Roads, long and narrow, blood-bathed roads
and their stifling skins yield chaos, dusty,
shaming the strayed sunshine and creating an
inspiring misgivings about others.
They treasure the mess, the happenings give
birth to, asking for more and more such mess,
and longing to intrigue against the slackened
inclinations of love and affiliation.
Irrelevancies cry about the relevancies,
that have decided to move in suffocating silence
promising to return back as memories come back
to normalcy after the burial of the dead.
Dimmed eye’s refusal to retrieve lost tears
grew stern, lighting, half-heartedly, the hopes
lying so low underneath the corpses, forgotton for
long, as they have no takers.
The passions that ruled last weak are dead now,
the emotions that splashed last week are dismayed now,
the blood that boiled till recently is icy cool now.
Floating, floating and floating are our senseless
voices, languid and wearisomely agile voices.
The young lady looking outrageously old,
fragile and thoughtful,
walks slowly,
stops,
searches,
moves.
Disheveled,
amnesic,
dammed,
folding unmindfully,
scudding against herself,
the young lady swiftly clusters herself.
Who is this lady ?
Sybil hell bent on writing a new chapter of history.
“Who would remember the history you people
wrote last week ? Would you or you or you or who else?”
mutters that lady,
her inhibitions, standing shy, nearby.
Nightmares soften their stand now,
they don’t choke now,
for they adore the light of the day now.
Their very symbols savagely mourn
the brutish supremacy of strangulating encroachments
over what couldn’t be revived now,
never.
Reddish traces linger on
and that young fragile looking lady,
lost in her remembrance,
like an unnoticeable cog
in the gargantuan past called
precious history,
and suddenly asks:
“That’s vile-should we a parent’s faults adore,
And err, because our fathers err’d before?” ( Charles Churchill in Rosciad.)
Their tones become menacing,
wrong reasons wiping out right ones,
antiquated philosophers usurp their
forgotton inertia as if
the young lady would soon lose her fragility
and their stifling skins yield chaos, dusty,
shaming the strayed sunshine and creating an
inspiring misgivings about others.
They treasure the mess, the happenings give
birth to, asking for more and more such mess,
and longing to intrigue against the slackened
inclinations of love and affiliation.
Irrelevancies cry about the relevancies,
that have decided to move in suffocating silence
promising to return back as memories come back
to normalcy after the burial of the dead.
Dimmed eye’s refusal to retrieve lost tears
grew stern, lighting, half-heartedly, the hopes
lying so low underneath the corpses, forgotton for
long, as they have no takers.
The passions that ruled last weak are dead now,
the emotions that splashed last week are dismayed now,
the blood that boiled till recently is icy cool now.
Floating, floating and floating are our senseless
voices, languid and wearisomely agile voices.
The young lady looking outrageously old,
fragile and thoughtful,
walks slowly,
stops,
searches,
moves.
Disheveled,
amnesic,
dammed,
folding unmindfully,
scudding against herself,
the young lady swiftly clusters herself.
Who is this lady ?
Sybil hell bent on writing a new chapter of history.
“Who would remember the history you people
wrote last week ? Would you or you or you or who else?”
mutters that lady,
her inhibitions, standing shy, nearby.
Nightmares soften their stand now,
they don’t choke now,
for they adore the light of the day now.
Their very symbols savagely mourn
the brutish supremacy of strangulating encroachments
over what couldn’t be revived now,
never.
Reddish traces linger on
and that young fragile looking lady,
lost in her remembrance,
like an unnoticeable cog
in the gargantuan past called
precious history,
and suddenly asks:
“That’s vile-should we a parent’s faults adore,
And err, because our fathers err’d before?” ( Charles Churchill in Rosciad.)
Their tones become menacing,
wrong reasons wiping out right ones,
antiquated philosophers usurp their
forgotton inertia as if
the young lady would soon lose her fragility