CLICK HERE FOR BLOGGER TEMPLATES AND MYSPACE LAYOUTS »

Monday, February 8, 2010

An Irony

The night it descends, softly

like the curtain of dew on a world stifled

by the claustrophobia of dust and heat.

The retreat has been sounded

and the footsteps march in perfect symphony

to that eternal call of sleep.

And somewhere deep inside that chasm

where civilizations have blossomed and been forgotten

lies a more ancient music

that softens the ceaseless pounding of time.


For only in sleep can the city-man reconcile

himself to his meaningless day.

Here he walks in a strange murky land

of brown shadows with no past and no future.

But the city-man, he proudly forgets,

that sleep was not to be the gift of man.

It began with the flow of time and despite its

music and its rhyme, it will stop

whenever it can.


And like phantoms from histories lost and misplaced,

they will look around at the world in awe and despair.

Desiccated to bare bones, they will call upon

their supermarket gods for repair.

And then they shall be reminded that

before the foundations of their iron cities were forged

and before their tall towering towers were put up.

There abounded lands and winds

more ancient and serene.

And they shall be reminded that

even within the vacant neon dreams of their deep city

there live other men –

a lesser race

who do not need sleep to comfort their return to oblivion.

00:06 AM

8th February, 2010

2 comments:

The Moontwined said...

Why thank you. And what be your basis of such charming critique?

Anonymous said...

Janaab, aap poetry ko romanticize kar rahen hai, acchi baat hai.

But if you are saying that the lesser men dont need comfort of sleep toh yeh toh delusional baat ho gayi na.

The hungry and disillusioned dont have romantic lives. They struggle with the basic and they dont have time to sit and wonder about the their great place in the universe.

That is a fascination of the rich.

Umeed hai aap agree karenge.