On being Human

The painting which was
In water colour, is now
Fading from the sides, from the corners,
It does not show now,
The shape of a small yet tender dream,
Or the soft outlines of a poem,
That had been born
In some weak, unmindful and distant moment,
And had brought in with it,
A gust of fresh wind,

The eyes sweep the sky,
In which swims the faint glimmer of the
dying sun, The wings of the
home-bound bird,
does not hold
any promise or possibility of a new birth,

An unending silence
Drapes the horizon,
The countless footsteps on the sand
In the beach
Were unrecognizable this morning,
Yet,
sustaining the prolonged cold nights
Under the trees,
On the roadside,
And inside the same familiar,
Yet alien walls,
is agonized and painfully unrecognizable,

To try to comprehend the chaos
Behind the silence,
And bear it upon the soul,
To meet the last hope and lust for life,
In the crossroads,
And stagger,
Surviving the tortuous existence
and labourious dragging ,
One of us does it, always.