NOMAD

 

Nomad

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.