Tuesday, December 02, 2014

An era of silence

The candle had burnt for two long years
The prayers countless that passed these lips;
So many scoldings that the ears pained to,
So many thrashings that this body bore.

All without a word of encouragement
A word of love or a word of consolation,
In those days when I was playing with fire
Much against my reason or my own will.

Afterwards the days turned into darkness
The lips stopped moving for miracles
For no molehills forget a mountain,
God was buried in those four walls.

You took away with you God and song
But now it’s all water under the bridge. 

Free Bird

A free bird flies in our blue grey skies
Seeking attention from the denizens;
All ears for tales of laughter and tears
Passing around free observations

He doesn’t sit on any branch too long
For fear that his heart may sing along
The many songs that he listens to
From the maidens whom he does woo

His friend is a bluebird of the skies
Who looks out for his loving jay
Though any day he can fly away
And make his nest in happy boughs.

The blue grey skies are made worth
One of pure devotion; one of mirth. 

Historian

You are a historian because you studied events to make sense of your uneventful life. You lost your father in the travails of war and throughout your life, you searched for the codes and nodes that could offer you a clue as to what you had lost with his death.  You marked the places and went from one end of the earth to the other just to see what your father’s eyes had seen and felt. Now, when you hardly recognise faces or reality, you are a child of three score who searches for meaning out of a lost father’s found letters.