'Life is but a collection of memories, grouped effectively before death.'
A silly child, who mocked and rejected
the meaningless musings of a world
that ebbed into enduring autumns and
dark winters, came to sit beside me.
With his hands ridden in mud, but without
the roughness that life would grant it
with, he asks me to cherish the purity
of his words and the radiance of his smile.
Replacing the child is a lad whose shine
continue to whisper what the child shouted,
He hid emotions somewhere inside his eyes
which seemed to deepen into an oblivion,
Where fragile thoughts were shattered
by awkward words. With a pace that guides
his motives, he wastes no time to point
my senses onto his frank smiles and a
A person who looks more like me could
be seen, experience (rather torments) of
living has smothered his eyes and haunted
his mind. His hands seem weary, legs tired
and through the long walk, his head stuffed
up by useless ideas, inflates like a balloon.
A prick made by memories finds him
bursting and swaying meaninglessly.
I see my own reflection beside,
I see him write the words with earnestness
and desire, though his legs grew stiff
and immobile, his pen masters all unfathomable
heights. He counts the faces he sees,
He asks them of their well being,
He forgets all goodbyes and struggle
onward for the rest of his life.
I see a future (distant but sure), maybe
upon the corners of my side, where I remove
my temporary hide, and make a perpetual ride,
I see myself galloping forward in time, and
taking siestas with infinities wrapped up in
each passing moment, perhaps then I shall
write again, not for the world to see but
for me to remember!
Inspired by the Malayalam poem 'Anyan' written by sir O.N.V.Kurup, this was written at Ernakulam (where I spent the better parts of my childhood) on 26/12/2013.