The blissful sleep. The leaves of trees in silent fall.
A pair of eyes in profuse sweating. A fly's buzz.
All that dirt around us is not profaning him.
Watch with thirst, for such a blissful sleep can't touch you.
How many suns the sly piece of sleep has enticed
Only to fade in the nick of the time! Oh, sleep!
The urban lights, the glittering hands that one shakes
Every days and dances holding them through the times,
The papers growling, crying or smiling to us,
All of them do not come with you to your nights to
Sing you a lullaby to post your dreams to the
Correct address. Only the sins riding on your
Day's calculations climb your rickety stair.
Caffeine smells your voice of fear. Wake up. Stay so.
Watch the tramp in a coma till his hunger wakes.
A fly buzzes around and settles on his mouth.
A thirst chokes you and a distant enigma smirks...
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Comments: 13
"All that dirt is not profaning him"--it is not the outward appearance that profanes one, but one's own actions and words. And we all must look at ourselves so:
"Only the sins riding on your
Day's calculations climb your rickety stair."
Masterful poem, Poddar, and so very rich with well-chosen, sensory details.