Rummaging, at a steady pace
"Take me aboard as the days starts, and when the sun nears it's time of rest"
In the last hour of treachery, the Sun falls as curse upon the cowards facing West, and the devotees alike;
praying to nothing: themselves paramount, a reasonable moment of thought shall suffice
to acknowledge the fact that the doomed can't be worshipped—
and those who object like the rotund scholars of the West,
those that are bestowed by the sun's presence a couple weeks in a year at best:
the last cup of ale you had perhaps skewered your rationale—I beg to pardon:
some empiricists pride themselves over that fact.
The inference is flawed either way.
Think again, isn’t odd really,
to worship the one that is subjected to the flames for a lifetime?
Then this temperate land, ridden with religion and fallacies—
they fall as curse upon the uncoincidental fertile soil.
Here reason, or empiricism have failed to thrive.
But regardless, I flourish in seclusion; and my contemporaries,
those too loud, are made quiet.
We have brought home with ourselves a feud with the utmost,
the most dominant of incentives; each at different times:
and that's precisely the reason for our army being so pathetically sparse.
What brought people to turn to wastelands, the narrow strips of land that caress the fields:
the archaic sidewalk.
Their relationship is bespoke: presents are exchanged between the field and this strip,
this exchange leeches whatever is dumped here back into our fields, and then into grains.
Every second, by the very moment it begins, falls short;
the damage has been done, and there's still no singular slogan of revolt.
Men of crime adhere to the celebratory dates of the common god,
advancing beyond all conceivable, lawful troubles;
and the youngest age of adults, due to the voracity with which they're entitled,
adhere to the same orthodox cult;
the ones that were let to shimmer,
only radiate half as much as unrestricted youth from the past:
adhering to all the meaning provided by the cult of the masses,
being a subject to the moral plague.
This land was better off with perishable waste, that was devoured by nature as fodder, leeching all but chemical waste into the food crops, and grains.
And better off without dogmatisation that awaits at every family’s door;
and easy subjection, inception, and inheritance of bad faith.
शफ़क़, धनुक, महताब, घटाएँ, तारे, नग़मे, बिजली, फूल।
उस दामन में क्या कुछ है, वो दामन हाथ में आए तो।
Amid another ruthless decade of change, it seems awfully appealing to foster love again,
and come home to an ordeal that has fared well; and settle at last.
But my own esoteric cult:
a defiled descendant of the scholastic endeavour of conscious reflection,
shatters the window through which I'd sought to seek
the company that would've been the death of thought;
delving into what Sarte would call bad faith.
"It's nowhere as troublesome as it seldom seems,
companionship shall never be the death of thought;
treachery shall persist until the final pulse of life,
there's no shelter from maxims that are birthed by oneself; and fear not!
They'll come down as rocks from crumbling hills;
there will come an enraged spark!
Coming to salvage every thinker that was a subject of murder;
tombed under the debris of a collapsed hill,
stabbed without mercy by rocks.”