[I’m 70. I’m alone]
Loneliness when I hear
the morn-birds
sing paeans to the Sun.
Loneliness when I
quiver in winter mornings
missing my quilt of life.
Loneliness when I
sigh at children
dancing in the rain.
Loneliness when family
look askance at me
and my ever stinking bed.
Loneliness when someone
hold my hands and cry, but
I don’t know who she/he is.
Loneliness when I
mutter Gitanjali, but
stop as memory fades out.
Loneliness when thoughts
about my dead wife
still knife me and wet my eyes.
Loneliness when I
lay awake during nights
drinking the poison of silence.
Loneliness when I was
in a hospital, caching up
with my departing breath.
Loneliness when I hear
footsteps of Lord Yama
holding ropes on hands.
Loneliness when people
force opens my mouth to
spoon -feed drops of water.
Loneliness when I
search for a bygone youth
but, meets only the
the corpses of my desires.
[Poetry is not my cuppa. But
then, afflicted by a sort of Sensitivity Affected Disorders and driven by
strange emotional upheavals seeing the demeanor and deportment of things, both
animate and inanimate, I begin to indulge in a kinda verbose, which I brazenly
call poetry. Puritan Poets may, therefore, very well excuse me for this aberration
since I always call a poem a product of heart not head]
Image courtesy: Google
