|Tales and Truces|

|Tales and Truces|


Tell him dear,
That if i could
I would have written
this in my mother's tongue
This small piece for him..

Years it has been,
have left her womb,
embraced languages and concoctions
Writing still In adopted
scripts, the words loosing meaning..but not the feelings,

Tell him that my old friend,
Dadu, Grandpa, waits for him too,
Up there, Is it up,
Maybe its down, or maybe
the transition is on a same level ground

From one womb to the other
One tongue to another
One country to another
Some people to some other
All one, the same, life and the world..

Tell him that as i write
Sitting in a class, a professor,
narrates his work, a goatee,
suggesting dissertation topics, I look
at him, write and cry,

Tears, Moist eyes,
Wet noses, but they,
they are all so busy,
engrossed, analysing the area,
'The dark side of social ties'..

In this life, Am privy
to a social ivy, but,
the people who study the
world, seem to me as
nothing more, but on a chevy..

Tell him, am still on my legs,
No wheels, not yet, future,
i dont know, mother says,
she is afraid, she emails
me, and i revel at her dexterity..

To adapt and adopt,
changing times, varying rules
of the same old game; she sitting there,
just refuted the professor,
and then she went quiet..

Everybody knows the futility of it,
this is not a changed world, some things
are always the same,
vulnerable, praying, hoping,
still beautiful, with its own beauty..

Like her, continuing the argument
the professor tries, explains,
She just smiles, a beatific
one, the prof shakes a litle,
his goatee rumbles, truce;

Thats how life has been,
will always be; about truce,
He, my granpa, you, me, the lady
In the corner arguing, the professor,

My mother, her son,
the world, students inside
or outside the class, workers or
idle chaps, lovers or
disbelievers of love...

Everybody i know, look around
has made a truce, I realise
there is, was, always has been
a battle, for the children,
the young and the old,

Making a truce at the end of it,
waiting for nights to arrive,
the sun blazing, little too much,
the moon beckons, Its calmness
and languid black etches...

Like her voice,
the rare time she speaks,
I write, keep writing,
dont utter a word, hoping
that this you will tel him dear..

That nights, the deep darkness,
Days, the warm sun clad ones,
the most thoughtful lost ones,
or the nonthinking fools, around,
they are the same, mirror images of each other,

Truce that is what, they have all
made with each other, the images,
the people, with smiles,
tears, anger, sadness, warmth or
perhaps with a little blood

Tell him dear, we,
you and me,
still the warriors, and when,
our tales on the battlefiled
will have been written, shall make truce too...

~Rather shoddy, will embellish this one, some time..