Are all we ever had,
have and wanted
One way or the other.
By those who are deprived.
Taken from them,
abused, locked away
By those who didn’t find them worthy.
Either way it has been a hot potato,
not handled with enough care,
reeking through revolutions
of sweat and blood, all unnecessary
dying one war at a time,
So many wars, so many deaths.
fractured, leaking like a gas jar,
somehow condensed and put
into one day, unceremoniously
By those who were
neither deprived nor deprivers
10th December, announced
like the birth of Christ
As if it would matter
As if they care.
Down the lane of thunderland
Is a little portal that opens inwards
Even in the dark gloomy hours
Life blossoms Behind the closed doors
there lives an old shabby cobbler
They have seen him mending shoes
They have seen him tore and tight
But never did they see him sans a smile
There also lives an old lady, his wife probably
Sewing clothes all day all night long
She has not seen the world out a lot
But she speaks truth, wisdom whenever she does
They call them a happy couple
Happy sans pennies sans children sans much adieu
But do they lie?
Eyes opened when it was still dark,
the night was whining making herself stark.
the moon was shining high, blowing winds in retard,
sun trapped between two hills in his backyard.
confusion persisted whether dawn followed or dusk preceded
somehow night and day felt succeeded.
in his own little yurt he felt uneasy,
the same old part of the globe once made him cosy.
the world had changed,
adaptation was far fetched.
a sudden cold wave had replaced the warm tropical breeze
somehow life around him had deceased.
where were the people who once resided the city?
the foul dead soil was feeling pity.
the scene was disturbing,
as if he was the left trash after a disaster curbing
his mind was all but numb,
no wonder he had throat choked of lump
somehow the calamity, the unknown and the nature had mated
in his own world, he was left alone, alienated…