Roshan - another good long poem

The end of the night is near,

the sounds progress gently, lightly illuminating

sleepy eyes.

The rain is noisy outside, clattering against the walls.

Soon there would be more sounds, of

Activity.

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.

Just one.



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.