A little bird rocks away
On the tip of a leaf.
The months roll into years
Fill with gibberish.
The weeks gather dust
My tools in the shelf gather rust,
Pains seep into each other
And I can’t make out one from another.
Yet, even as them pains tighten their grip,
My dreams they still refuse to sleep.
Inflammable dreams,
To be handled with care.
Could stoke my fire/
Could burn me bare.
I’m not sure if I should fuel them on
Feed them with that old soul of mine.
Sometimes, the pain drips all day long.
I gather them in a bowl,
And recast them in the flame of hope,
Distil them through the night –
To see if the potent poison may yield
A spoonful of potion,
A handful of light.
And what’s left over,
I bring to the game
To wipe away some tears,
To erase some shame..
Try if I can – to do some right.
So when the next morn breaks
In a crisp sunshine wrap,
It finds me primed
Ready for a scrap.
Like a tiger in a field of green,
Bathed golden in the twilight.
So much to conquer,
So little my might!
And I care not if the light is now dying
I have buckets of my own to pour
To last me another hour’s worth
Or maybe even a lifetime more.
—–
AKS. Bengaluru. June 2021.