Figurative Assessment of the Prior, Internalisation of Angst

A train runs along the far-end of this town, 
beginning on its peril early, when the sun has barely risen,
and the keen ones along—the unassuming ones maintain rest.
The sound is heard a few towns across from the city, 
and in an overwhelming swing of wind, and rushed cars, bells;
alarms ring to naught, and children march, to commit another day to flames, 
sit in rooms, care not to learn, if that, at a natural pace: at which the foliage falls.
Lamps are put to rest, the candle dies, “farewell, formidable night…”

“In the morning, yarns are spun, into fabric, then cloth, 
Mother packs lunch for my brothers that live 40-miles across.
I reside in a humble-abode of four, drowning in the feminine consensus that formed.
My father held the fort, as I went to school, to provide my brothers with lunch.”

Dust airborne, the path barely kept, a couple bags on the back, 
another one in the hand, a sleeve for my books and pens;
and the equally heavy metal jars, or vessels for water, 
or milk, churned to a thick form, from the sturdy buffalo back home
that would tragically pass when the barn was lit, by accident; 
flame engulfed its prey—a woeful facade.

There wasn’t much of the school hours that would come to mind,
or it was erasure, the emissary of the blur, of the decay unsaid, or impending death, 
or normalcy—complacency—custom that all came at once,
and demanded revenge.

The school would come to end, ushering a move to the city, 
where in the process the purpose of my daily commute was served, 
seated in a bus to a pre-established home.
This was the place everything would fall together, 
and my actions would welcome my end—many perish in the wait of such destiny,
the purpose of my daily commute was served.

“Favours aren’t fully realised when it’s time to give, or commit to a return
of value, by will; never validated by fulfilment as much as the grant,
never daring to become the one commuting, instead of staying in dorms.”

The city was more welcoming it seemed, with high rises, and planned grids, 
with the brutal bricks and mortal, and lack of a coats, 
boasting the weighty middle-class, and the other group, following in their commands.
It was a young and promising Swiss-French child, 
exhibiting etiquette of the now faint imperial regime, 
mutually growing with the new forming sovereign
which had been dissected twice, 
then pushed to the ground, and batted by our neighbours up North. 

“I was soon offered a job, in the highest district council that was;
and along with my fellow acquaintances that I’d just formed, 
we were asked to pledge to our God, and commit to work.
One thing fell after the other, a promotion after the next;
then marriage,  arranged with a lady that kept her guard
for when I was at home or away, her ingenuity reigning before all, 
attracting members of the higher class, however much elite, 
and holder of scholarly records, they would automatically be set aside, 
for them to converse with her, learn, sew like my father would, banter, 
laugh… 
Her spirit was never fully tired, emptied or exhausted,
and that until the impending clock came, and stopped.”

“4 Years ago… 
a speck of Light merged into Light Infinite.
leaving behind a long trail of gloom and grief.”

Death doesn’t revoke meaning from memory, 
or from the spectacle of fruitful, generous offspring.
“I was away until the height of the night; summer or winter never in regard;
on a bicycle, pacing back home from college that I’d attend after work,
until I was deemed ready to take the next step in the ladder, 
and inherit certain duty upon myself:
of the state that had given to me all that I cared to maintain;
which provided a better incentive to attend lectures;
and colleges in the morning, commuting by cars, 
instead of my trustworthy bicycle that would often malfunction
in the middle of a bleak street,
demanding a slow march to the next lamp, and fixing the chain.
The bicycle was dear to me, it had solely funded my house, car, 
tuition, and food for the family, I was the last person to grow forgetful of a grant.”

The show was a great success, promoting me further, the first inline 
as head of the state during the emergency;
away from home, dreary farms until the horizon, blood red evening, 
death threats, distant gunshots.
Food was sparse then, many leveraged their pride to be consumed by the aves,
and devoured bread, not more than once a day, for weeks on end.
“The landlord would invite me to his dinner in those days, 
I thrived in the greatest courses of calamity and death—
I was certainly mandated, and protected by God.
The landlord was a great friend,  too, until he became prey to the clock.”

Then the dust that was caught in the wind in the early 40’s, settled at last, 
a good two-decades had passed after 1984.
Peace and sunlight signalled for age to come, and begin the last stage of rot,
but only a few are aware of its arrival when consumed
in the hubris of the spectacle again:
seeing family flourish further, and the arrival of the next in-line in the house.

My arrival instigated the clock, 
some would never see the next day, or their family again, 
yet why is every face lathen with a smile?
When is consequence tagged as assault, 
when does a life unlived become a heritage revered,
calling for a legacy to learn—a word to be taught;
yet it fares higher than the theist’s sermon, 
of faith, that is never visible, or tangible, 
or accepting critique.
Heritage bears some consequence that is seen, 
its not any grander that it needs to be, 
except in rare cases where man is motivated to act
in violence, unorderly, cease law, cause threat.
God in all his omnipotence does not stand,
even partially to the claim; turning the other cheek
when high tides fuel erosion of the coast, 
or an earthquake demolishes homes, over people;
when a child dies, 
when an animal is bitten to the bone in full consciousness.

How cruel is the pursuit to certainty, ambition, familial piety, to norm;
declaring young pearls, those yet not fully formed as unfit?
Those that only inherited wealth, 
and lived in a newfound sense of regality, and wealth, 
in mourning that is of the days long gone, when the likes of Beauvoir
would contradict themselves in letters of love; in the years of the World Wars.
Or before that, in remote Himalayas, wherein feud and capital
didn’t care to stick their arms;
where lives were lived, despite the low yield, and bodily frost;
a fireplace shared with the neighbour when one’s lumber was damp.

Certain is the collapse these men,
those that are sold the dream, and are left to indulge, 
in unproductive cycles, lethargy, and lust;
those that fear to argue despite knowing all that came before, 
and know the inner-working of themselves, 
as a priori intellects in a vessel formed, 
from years of surplus and exploitation,
famine and colonisation;
this is their condemnation,
and in condemnation is birth.

            4th-10th Februrary 2026
            Byangshar/Shabnam Sanzhi.