_______________
the wind has blown, so long,
from west to east
burying us, under the dunes,
and we are told time and again,
of our foolishness, in being otherwise,
than buried...
no, not the laymen, and coolies,
but the sages too proclaim such
who went in search of freedom,
individuality and 'quality of life'
and made love contentedly like porcupines
in that great just cauldron,
and came back home,
angry, just like the usuals.
and why not, they brings parcels,
modes and modems,
the whole right world in their lap
enter homes to gratify,
rather than to please....
we have been here,
silent auditors to the fables of our fall,
and made to realise,through their
earnest efforts,
that we have stood like indignant silhouettes
while our bodies departed long back,
i don't dare answer,
i stutter, silly i'd sound,
against the might of the wind, the west wind
it blows hard, it blows by stealth,
it moves foundations,
it moves the tendrils,
but still i do dare in my peaceful sleeps
to wonder how a desert
shall be my place for homecoming,
and will the desert weep on my own debris...
i wake up,
i have to wash my clothes.
« return.