That you wear this nomadic life
on your sleeve and move
from house to house
scene to scene, drawing lines
on water and then
shuttling to another horizon altogether
in burserk,
It only speaks of your rootlessness.
You have forgotten even to be sad,
Your eyes are dry like a perennial desert
The rain comes, but in such odd
and strange hours that you
do not recognise the clouds
once in a while.
A flood rises in you purposelessly
not seeking any shore to drown
but as a random thirst,
There is no hunger but of the stomach;
That also you do not feed with zest,
You spend the empty hours in langour, without chasing a Buddha
or a denouncement,
Stray flashes of thoughts
hiting the walls of your non-being,
when you are not struggling
to meet the necessity of the necessities.
Purposefully someone something wrote
in the slate of time,
And you lost a home,
So that you will be making homes here and there, until the times comes,
to fly back home,
Past the etching of a half hazard tale
of half inclination
and half comatose existence.
Till then it is frenzied songs
sung quietly in the long summer hours
of the day or the wintry nights,
Or the afternoons when the
sky casts the gloom and suddenly
changes into the storm's costume
forcing everything into chaotic madness.
Then you dance, then you come alive.
You breath the ordinary charm
of the extraordinary days
like the fragrance of mellowed afternoons.
The overwhelming moments
keep whispering,
that you are here
for a few seasons,
So are the happy yellow flowers
falling outside the window-
Arriving, blooming and disappearing.
