Without Stirring Poem by rama teertha

I cannot keep without stirring
Nor I Can be inanimate

A move may yield a few drops of honey
But most of the times
What will come down is only the dead honey bees

When alive how beautiful were they,
Wings aflutter, noisy, always happy, crooning a line,
Weaving the nature green all over-

Now look just corpses,
With sticky wings, eyes shut,
The songs emanating a filthy odor
Wherever you see a body either on the floor,
Or taking it into you open palm,
Same melancholy
A beauty burnt internally-

Head aloft, look around
Nothing is there, nothing remains
The past is not visible to the eye

Now one has to reel it out and peel layer by layer
Akin to taking off the bark of a tree

Once the string is pulled the emerging sound is just mine,
only to me

Those who have climbed in will get down –
Is it an end –
Perhaps it starts then
Like a curtain of water it begins and
ends up as the din of a funeral procession
flowers the coins tossed high scattered all around
with children following in a commotion –that’s all

every movement is either a funeral procession or
a serpentine voice of weeping,
yet
stirring and moving both are important

tragedy or comedy

the attempt to know which flows into which
is also a moment fraught with danger

a pair of arms and eyes becoming
dead honey bees
drop before you