Twenty Two Poem by Rijan Britanicus Acharya

I am staring at that pigeon,
through the smoky casement,
watching itself play with itself
(perhaps fleas have owned its feathers)
and staring beyond it when
my eyes strikes on the yellow wall,
i find that the gap between them,
gives me some memories;
my ears think they have listened
the king was dead....and yesterday
or day before yesterday
but eleven years are occupied;
Time has no philosophy of imagination;

When i rest on a river bank
and think something
by plucking the new budding poppies
and richly flavored hemlocks
i found that the water that blew down
was still blowing down,
and the stillness of the same water
amazed me i assume.
but the water i saw that time
and the water i see now
have a difference in their traveling.
but as still the same matter
as the stillness of my all desires
it seems so constant and same.

When that pigeon flew,
i saw my past ejected from present
when only the yellow wall now i see.
I draw myself and sketch
that eleven years ago
i saw nothing but my loneliness
and now that years have come
like a shadow following through all ages
i have lived.
Or just as the water
that flows now and later
makes no difference
as the water of now and later
all is hydrogen bond of oxygen.

Twenty two! O' my atheism!
let me be a pigeon,
then age won't matter
when my dreams are still
pale and blue, budding
on the branches of hemlocks
with their best poisons.

Whatever yellow wall is an illusion
beyond it there is no color
so the present i live
is what i shall live later;
that makes no difference
in shooting my heart or be drowned.

Love is impure diamond,
and i a man on a mine
searching for coal;
i am no mechanical man
to craft it or carve its value.

Wandering in fancy is sweet
and the thoughts resigns from thinking;
too deep is life
perhaps value of death
or harsh madness
does give an end to the Egyptian riddle;
I have no desire to rise my anthropology
of events i am rowing;
amidst the blue waters of breathes'
there is a silence pondering my shallow eyes;
there is a still heart measuring the depth
of the lunatic philosophies i think.
Perhaps it is hazard race of universe
or a nonsense havoc of chaos.
Too tired to row;
When i have lived an old age enough
in the fancy i stare at.

The graveyard or crematorium
sometimes when i have to go
gives me a relief
and when some birds chirps
i think the bid is grace
then the tune of heart when eyes opens and lips murmurs.

Joy is just a little space of my age
that fits in brain to recreate sometimes;
But i want to vacuumize the past
when joy is a passive guest.

Life, Life, Life......so drunk i am;
there is nothing else t make feel
that living sense is a sense enough
to live and desire.
There is nothing to desire
beside the black river in its ugly flows.
I overflow when i see dreams
and when i see graveyards and empty graves.
It seems i am already dead by mercy,
but awakening gives a panic;
i wish life was only dreams
and dreams were only empty graves, woods and fire.