Thoughts And Trivia

Under scorching sun, canopy of trees, harsh light sieve,
Pattern like mesh of suffering and relief, in dusty cemetery weave.
Wandering rustle, of dead brittle leaves, puts silence to sleep,
Hundreds of solitudes, out shrieking thoughts sweep.

Hear the hypnotic tales, from graves dead men shout,
Passionate lives, lived or dreamt, calmly recount.
Whom they loved, and who deceived,
Magnanimities and cussedness, given and received.
Laughter and tears, grief and stifled cry,
Miles of tales, condensed in a sigh.

Over heart, hands crossed, solemnly lie in state,
No longer they fib, neither they hate.
Now that, spell is shattered, ennui sails,
Call it a day; lets not tarry, on dead men's tales.

Mothballed secrets forgotten, why these tales told,
How could past mysteries resolve, my future foretold?
Since when bones creak, my breath labours,
Are my eyes shut, soul eternity harbours?
Hear more I won't, Can't I getup and bail,
Am I the Dead Man? Telling my own tale?

Oh! Listen! Don't you go, over the chest hands please fold,
Yours as well 're these tales, lie besides me as told.
Why and wherefore, humans behave, fret not one's head,
Nothing unknown, all revealed, in grave lies when one dead.

Posted by Girish Bhatnagar at Wednesday, April 20, 2005