Treasure Island

Hardik Vaidya

(26 Dec 1969, I won't be dead till you know I am alive. / Mahuva, Gujarat, India.)

To prisoners of the Past.


Holding on.
Clutching at the last straw.
Hanging over the edge of an abyss.
Since a Millennia.
Addicted to the opium of the past.
The moss and fungi laden air,
Fumigating our lungs,
Asphyxiating our sense of existence of the present.
Greatness fossilised in the resin of our blood,
Remains frozen like a colloid in our arteries of thought.
No logic will penetrate the dead wood,
Its not wood it's not bio degradable.
The constipation of ages, has clogged our soul.
It is dying,
Almost vegetative,
It cannot twiddle its toes.
When o when shall you leave your fools gold?
The past does not last, the present is in the moment,
The future beckons, your languishing soul,
It begs you to reckon.

Submitted: Monday, April 22, 2013
Edited: Friday, September 27, 2013
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Poet's Notes about The Poem

Indians live in the past. They genuinely think they were years ahead of all civilisations some time between the Big Bang and today. Well good luck to them. I don't think so. Simply because if we were we would not have been slaves or a colony, we certainly would have at least managed to do a better job there. But even if we were, so what? How does that help us now? Lets for gods sake move ahead as a people, not as a bunch of religious sects, castes, vote banks and a hundred other splintered groups.

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