Contraries do not please,
Nor do any kind of unities,
Chaos is a homespun weave
And rhyme, the pestilent summer breeze
Nature delights no more.
Nor does this urban scape,
where polluted red sunsets
Pass for beautiful profundities
Rhyme waits like a handmaid
To that old tyrant Art–
Useless, baseless justifications
Of power that a poet must possess
Where, then, can one direct one’s muse?
When neither streams, nor trees,
Neither cities, nor forests would do?
A chaotic exploration of whatever fragments
Lie within us.
(Note the imbalance)
Fragments cannot be celebrated either,
when each fragment is at each moment
being decomposed;
the momentariness of each moment
has disappeared.
Nothing but a fragile fleeting shade remains
of what was once a rearrangement of fragmented memories.
Each precious piece then, let us break,
Till we reach that tiny sliver of glass,
Which seeps within the skin,
Embedded there forever,
Like a shining tattoo,
Reminding us to breathe–
For one more day– everyday.
© Geetakshi Arora,
June 7, 2013
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