Hardik Vaidya

(26 Dec 1969, yet to kick the bucket. / Mahuva, Gujarat, India.)


What do I own? Let us rephrase,
For the sake of all our combined grace.
What do we own? Sorry I just changed the number,
Prisoners of time, always sleep in deep slumber.
What can we own? You, me, she, her, it, they, them, is there an end?
Before that we need to find and face what is it to own?
You will say money given, don't finish, money was just born,
What before, when we did not know money, but we wanted to own?
Lets play a game, you are not alive and I am dead.
We don't live on this blue blob, so what's said, is unearthly at its best.
My father did not own me, neither did my soul mate,
I did not own my mother, neither did she own her wombs fate,
My brother he does not own me, I don't do likewise,
I don't own my thoughts, my feelings, my heart, my body,
I don't own, the depths and the falls of my own mind.
I don't own my poems, I only experience.
I am living on rent,
I don't pay any rent,
No one asks me for any.
Just as the sky does not bill the oceans,
The oceans don't bill the wind,
The earth does not bill the sun,
The sun does not bill me.
The moment I understood this,
The mad cow in me belched free,
The Serengeti in me erupted into a cacophony,
They screamed, you little rat you now know the secret of harmony.
The mind is not yours, neither are the thoughts,
It is in the freedom of it all that you rent your cause.
When you have set it free, there is no tenant,
No land lord, nothing can ever be owned,
You are free, the universe is your sweat pea.

Submitted: Thursday, February 28, 2013
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Poet's Notes about The Poem

I was driving down and this bolt struck me, and gnawed at my raw flesh and then reached my bones. It asked me what is it to own? Is it possible? Is it related to living. If we assume man was immortal, thank god for his mercies, he has been kind, but hypothetically speaking if we were, would we still be in a position to own anything?

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