Wednesday, February 22, 2012


Counting is what
we do all our lives,
how much ever we deny,
we keep counting our days,
hours and breaths,
counting the medals
or grains of rice
husked out of
avaricious poverty ;

We do count the votes
for our apolitical existence,
day by day, and count
the rashes and abscess on
our skin, or the violence
or the childhood taunts
we grow up with.

There are some assets
we count and let them
multiply in the four
chambers of our heart;
we lets wounds fester
and hurts double,
we brew and ferment them
in the cauldron to hate
then to savor the taste
of the wedding at Cana.

We writers count each
syllable, letter and word,
every published manual
to sold books, and we count
our days towards immortality,
We are Sibyls drying up
in our jackets, we are
open to affront and interpretation,
we count them and
treasure them as our weapons too.

Counting murders, how many:
heads chopped, dead in
bomb blasts, raped and mutilated;
we count progress, muffling
low tides, counting crisis,
crimes and catharsis

we count every step
etched in neat ascending
even when the descend begins
we count up the neat steps
of ascend,
 I too have counted on your love,
counted your sighs, how many times
you made and proclaimed love;

till I compressed my landscapes
toned down by exuberance
chiselled my routines
and deleted my dreams
to start dreaming of the stars
and the eagles guarding their freedom,

I have stopped counting ever since
I painted the tarmac with rainbow
hues, wondering where exactly I would go.


Blog Archive