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One retires to the hinterland
Of one’s heart’s desire and builds home
With drops of honey
Dripping drowsily in a pot
Out of the crucible of fatigue and fight,
To live in peace – away
Away from the graying city of dazzling lights
That gives an alluring look
Of a patient of leukaemia – bloodless and brave and bright,
With the last-lost breath of life
Dawning upon, bequeathing
A legacy of substantial nothing.
Then one thinks of pushing off
To a metropolis where jostling
In overcrowded isolation,
Faces – pushed and pulled and squeezed
To live poles apart and part
Even without a clownish chuckle,
Where many thrive in the underworld
Of metros, slums, subways and slangs,
And dream of drops of honey dripped
On their wounded selves to lessen
The pain of living comfortably,
In a juicy jungle of concrete cubicles,
With a high head towering over the sky
Of hollow infinity.
Those high heads are (at least) able to breathe
Out of the tubes of suffocating lanes – away
From the world of before, below and up
From the world one is born into
And to the world one evaporates,
It is not the same world one is brought forward to
Surrendering before an invincible foe
(For we have made him so!) and we
Too weak to fight, too weak to fly!
Why should we fiddle then?
No honey left in the riddled honey-pan!
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