1
I came walking over the night
but could not collect a fistful of darkness!
The dreams beneath the eyes swimming in tears
could not make a legend.
2
Sitting in each grapheme
I converse with the rest.
For, each word is a confession-box.
I put down my own episodes here.
3
Like the empty bottles rolling down
these memories trudge along encasing emptiness …
some never get interred,
while some others get hazy
like letters on a dampened paper …
4
Some enigmatic relations restrain emotions
like the weight on a paper.
Passion had long evaporated!
When shall the distinction between
wetting and moistening be clear?
5
The howling in the air
that the interred had no friends
shall not reach the other ear.
No boulder of the Pyramids
can either fill the hollowness of life
or block my view.
But then, what is it that I attempt to see,
after all!
6
Borrowed intellect shall not fit
like the misfitting borrowed garments
it looks so odd… so unnatural.
7
That all-pervading vacuum
does not spare even this confession box…
Doesn’t Life script its own screen play?
.
Srinivas Vasudev
వ్యాఖ్యానించండి