What drives us to the verges?
history
egregious notions of a glorious past
our own delusions
the sullied air we breathe in
What blinds us
from our own frailties
naiveté
the tumults of war and destruction
the violence we fondly term bravery
If this world were to end
I am certain our infirmities would emerge
like ancient tombstones
And all our glories would dry out to fossils
Our histories, reduced to undecipherable scribblings
Buried deep
in the earth under our feet
perils of the peasant
cries of the soldier
deceit, injustice, malice
maddening howls of kings
and the collective hysteria of our times
of all times
Fragile is this gloss
a greed drives the wheel of days
a stupor tends to the nights
hands shake and quake
through the frost of voices in-vain
How we’ve walked
as a jungle burned
on every step; laced with an incertitude
beneath the grass, a void
unfathomable
And inheritances were always meant to be squandered
how we’ve lost the little bits
we’d received
A jungles burns
alongside an age-old melancholy
a nothingness; a Sunya,
a Sunya for you and I
These glares I cannot see
these sounds I cannot hear
How we walk
unsure through this
din
swept under the tides
fin del Mundo
a bird sings
And see how we walk
a subterfuge
scatters all along;
pastures, untouched
for our unkempt beings
lay ahead
and beyond
-
Anant Dhavale
© Anant Dhavale
