nor was I led by any conscience.
I was relishing a sweet dream.
Caressing a longing to reach somewhere else.
How have I come to
a place I never headed for?
A village that has lost itself?
The naive roads snaking into the village
must not have brought me
to a place I did not head for.
A place where nothing seems to be familiar,
where a hoarse shriek is rising from
the voice that sang a song.
The branches holding flowers
look like bare wires.
The clouds are hastening away
loading black in them.
Poetry flowed out of a pond of sensibility
the song that sang a human heart
the painting that depicted a man
have been crushed under the weight of a wild rage
How have I been carried to a place
I never planned to get?
There should have been some rustic houses,
some kids clad in an amorphous array of dust,
some aging country folks with history in the folds of their faces,
some youths eager to grab the stars from the sky,
a multi hued rainbow of pleasure,
a well of affection,
and a roof of the sky with a sea of blue.
There are some boulders cold as death
and some torture camps.
I never started for the village where
the melody was driven away.
Stepping on the ground drearily cracked
I am asking a question:
when will the country dust be back?