I
So many of them
Saying the same things
So many of them…
For years they have
felt
The pangs of time,
The sting of loss,
The warmth of love,
The heat of lust,
The angst of failure,
The joy of victory,
The wisdom of age,
The glory of words
Coined and arranged
Rearranged and
exchanged…
It goes on…
What is there to say?
What is left to
write?
What is yet to be
thought
Or debated or won or
lost?
All seems to have
been done-
Beyond any use or
impact.
Nothing makes a mark
Nothing touches deep…
An empty mesh of
pointless chatter-
Ideas and words done
to death.
II
But late at night,
Just before the dawn
There dawned some
words-
Words again they were,
Loosely strung in a
maze,
A maze of smoky rays,
Pounding against the
ceiling
Asking whether to
erupt or to flow…
The latter was chosen-
A choice that came by
itself,
A choice that drew
from the bookshelf,
The need to let it
out
To add to the shelf’s
motley,
A need to address the
reluctance
To find out a new way
A need to do the same
things,
To try the old
thoughts,
To brush away the
dirt,
From the clogged up
mind,
To regenerate life
Not for life’s sake
But for the sake of a
purpose,
A method,
A direction
To the neglected,
senile, ancient pool.
III
Though meaningless
these felt,
Though pointless the
effort seemed
Though tiring the
process,
Was it truly
worthless?
The dreams that they
all did dream,
The words that they
all planted,
The trees that they
nurtured,
The value that they
harvested,
The depth that they
added?
All that they thought
aloud,
All that they
restated,
All that they knitted
for ages-
All collecting dirt
for years…
The smoke was lifted
The maze gave way to voices,
That led to strong
resounding voices
Of hungry young
minds-
Minds that aren’t
closed down
Minds that ask for
more
Minds that ask why
they learn
Whether to score or
to earn…
A creepy wistfulness
arose
The dark room, the
old books
The greying hair, the
thickened voice
All joined in to let
out a sob…
IV
Where is that hunger?
Where is the madness?
Where is his happiness and
His pursuit of for what’s unknown?
Cynic, skeptic…Knows it all…
He seemed to have seen life
In all its shades and in all its forms-
Nothing left to know,
Nothing left to say,
Nothing left to note.
Up until now…
A moment of spark-
A few buzzing words.
An old man’s clarity,
An old mind’s need
For time to see again-
For time to see it all
With new eyes,
To hear the music of words
With new ears,
Free from prejudice
Or the complacent smirk…
Will the dawn bring time
And madness and mirth?
Will it blow away the dirt?
ARITRA CHAKRABARTI
1:45 AM, 05-12-2013.
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