A strange wind blows my way -
Of melancholy, inertia and dismay.
I want to cheer up,
I want to be bright,
But an ennui stains all the delight.
The tales all ended in hope,
The dreams were all colourful;
But I wonder why, like the rainbow,
They always disappeared so soon...
The images are too cliched
to be woven into a poem.
I wanted to be different.
To glide in the winds and not fly,
To flow through the ground and not run,
To melt in the rains and not play...
The limbs have dried up,
The brain has dehydratred,
The heart has coagulated.
Like sheets of rain,
I just fall on and off...
Flowing down the tarred roads
and into gutters...
Smiles become mere memories
for a page in an autobiography.
A word of affection,
A touch of assurance -
I die for them every moment.
I cannot ask for more,
I am guilty of greed.
But still I crave...
I pass my time looking at Ravi Varma pictures,
And aiming at stars.
I look out of windows, thirsty for a chirping finch,
And think of whether stars are aspirable.
But a lizard clicking above the kitchen light
Brings me back to the ground.
The rotis are burnt to cinders, and I am hungry.
I go back to the dreams, inertia, and strangeness.
I go back to my world.