This is an interesting development - where will it lead you, Roshan?
Shirt dull with dirt,
Watching the whipping by,
of barren lands- with budding life,
underneath the brown dirt.
Convergence and practise,
Rails intertwining to form the thread,
the path which we so automatically tread.
Bright eyed and cavalrous young,
and one who lies there with silent eyes,
in the darker corner,
where the harsh light of a still dead land,
cannot reach with it it's twining fingers.
I cannot see.
Chugging along the metal lines of exploratory man.
I have tried to see the stones-
the subtly exposed skin beneath the neck,
so white and untouched,
under the carefully crafted bulge of an adolescent breast.
Careful, calculated smiles that hide their arithmetics.
I cannot see the origin- the heap of it all.
I have heard many times,
standing in the musty bookshelf,
the sound of silent footsteps that scatter around,
before finding each other in the middle.
I have heard many times, the cajoling voice of God's best creations,
urging the young to sit down- and when they are gone and the dust gets heavy,
and they cannot keep inside their explosive selves- they ask softly,
to the things around them- why do they speak as-if he speaks to them?
for if there was one who Watches and is Wise,
the purest would be the things that cannot think.