The end of the night is near,
the sounds progress gently, lightly illuminating
The rain is noisy outside, clattering against the walls.
Soon there would be more sounds, of
Food lies forgotten against hungry hands,
The rain continues and is immaterial to us.
Our fathers sleep peacefully,
Hands under their cheeks.
Returning from long journeys, has taken
Its deathly toll.
A siren distant in its intent, but proximal
In its distance wakes up the sympathetic moods
Of a few.
The world crashes against the shore,
A stone wades into its deep waters,
And calls softly to the wonders that
Lie in its ignorance- or so it thinks.
And the water marks it till there is no
Surface to mark, and then
It is complete.
Beauty and its deceit roam freely
Where the simple music of freedom plays,
A leaf, clean and brown falls,
Kicking up specks of dust, thudding to the base
Of a tree.
And all over again, I stand quietly.
On one tile.
Attempting to be small, and smaller
And sometimes minute,
Hiding away, between my shoulder blades,
I squeeze, tighter.
I would like to disappear-
if only there was,
such a place.
And as the sun goes down, hiding another day,
The rest of the world sees slaughter in a garden
Of fake offspring and conditioned reflexes.
Murdered of many and consoler of some,
Take my hand and impart a few words of wisdom.
We look at him and he speaks no words.
Great men listen with intent at the
Sound of people singing a tuneless song,
The bells crack against each other
Showering the prayers beneath in a fit
Of ungainly chaos, the sun, today red
As always, goes down, with shame.
The mellow colours of a soft summer morning,
Are no balm.