All Things Passing
Inside the hard cranial cavity of a meshy
Syndrome. All things passing, viewed from the windows,
Of eyes. Incomprehensible maze of sights, from a bright sun.
Not listening the sounds of the outer space, that fall above,
The ear's capacity. We call this as silence.
The absurd existential Kafkaesque dream, a Dostoyeskian,
Leave the bull, blinded by the illusion of red and in rage,
The reality will find its own victim. Gain the moral high,
By some aloofness, gained in time. There are no timelines
In nature. It proceeds with slow gradual slide, sans any hurry.
How can you give a timespan to flower, to grow, manifest,
And wither. A wave will pass even if it has a knowing.
From hollow, unknown appearance into this vast universe.
Going back or forth is easy. The perishment is either transient,
Or back to hollowness. We shall experience. Those who did,
They did not tell us, except that we see them happy in our dreams.
We have invented wealth, as a common suffering. The absence of which,
Means losing grace. To part with you gain it. Wealth begets wealth.
On the rooftops the soot of the polluted air was like getting old.
In character and beauty. Those parallel roads were leading,
Nowhere. I saw an orgasmic black statue of a woman,
Symbolsing a wish to create with ecstatic pleasure.
Her hairs were like roots from the earth, and the womb,
Getting sunshine. She is the multiplier of human race.
The Homeric odyssey has passing lines on the life of living,
Describing the valor of the fighting gods. A Samurai is holding,
The sharpest blade and the art of fighting is a reverence.
The short novels narrate some ordinary fables.
Everything is passing. Vincent van Goph had sold one painting,
In his lifetime. The warfare of the buried past is awakened,
From the ruins without looking for signs of life. We need to live
Without flags and color. The predicament of being a human is immense.
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