the dawn of difference
I'm a young boy,
Standing in the middle of nowhere.
Dusty lanes, dusty stretches of landmass surround.
Disheveled i stood, with a worn out heart,
Among the dust present all around.
Hope, that little shines my dull lacrimicity,
Joy, it seems too irrational a word.
A blazing sun tries to dust me down,
Here a scream was passed that no one heard.
What was i was screaming for?
And how could it possibly translate agony to mirth?
Half of my senses seem to be evaporated by now,
Here, with a blazing sun bringing down the dirt.
You're young, Sir. What do you know of pain?
And how can pessimism practically exist in you?
What amount of breakage to the streamline might nullify your happiness,
How can you happen to look the way you do?
You're young, Sir. What do you know of life?
Have you ever had responsibilities shouldered upon you?
What amount of dirt might dishevel your life,
That's governed by parental love known to few.
You know, man. Sometimes it just cuts open,
All this brimming flow of poisonous tears.
And you stand on a patch you don't understand,
And caresses by you, personification of your fears.
And so, I start walking at an indefinite path.
Checking doubly for the perfect aristocratic stance.
The road keeps going on and on,
Stolidity indifferent to a stare or a glance.
I presume my hair's conditioned like a cluster of bouncing feathers, inert to the dirt in me or around,
I hope my suit still passes the sheen from the previous day.
Feed the people with thy puritan superbness,
And slam behind closed doors anyway...
Laughing, are you? Or are you among those tired of tradition and dogmatism?
Does the idiocy fail to find a logic in the head?
Scientifically, is it screwing you up?
Do you throb your head at the far corner of your bed?
Come in the dirt, extract your set of rules,
Never believe what the great men said.
And maybe, just maybe, when liberty arrives,
The orthodox will find a bullet fly through his head.
- - - Avirup Bandyopadhyay
Topic of this poem: philosophical
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