My head, brimming with the bees
Of a day’s fill of other people’s voices, is
Thoroughly soaked through, a noisy beehive
That is scratching & plying the cranium interior
That has long since become bereft of its own voice
The danger of this condition belies
Its apparent harmlessness, for its roots are pure madness
Everyday is spent – expelling, expelling!
And then in shaky defence
Fortifying against further invasion
But in this stupor of semi-consciousness
Re-feeling a twitch of authentic life
I, too, have an incredible impulse to write
To re-feel the poetry of life
That can carry me to those transcendental shores of light
But the hand of the paralytic poet,
Disabled, lives in a dream-state that is half-baked,
No mark on reality can its mind-focus make,
As it trudges along half-consciously,
Always spent in search of something else
Through the torture-rack of nine to five -
The heart of the fruit sucked out
Shrivelled apple skins in the sun
I appeal to a God-filled eternity
Through the eye of this insatiable inanity!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem