Ishwar Chandra

As the farmers bellow in ranches
And the political monkeys laugh on branches,
The wind of agony blows.
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I search for you everywhere! And in my sleep
Blooms the wild tuberose of your dreams.
The stars are busy—twinkling in the sky.
And, within me, a sea has begun to rise.
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Most people do not like solitude.
They confuse it with loneliness.
They do not understand its utility.
They work hard to find a mate and
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Camus, Kafka, Keats, Khalil, Orwell, Byron, and Soren all died due to tuberculosis. Hemingway shot himself. Bukowski failed to live. Plath stuck her head in the oven. Nietzsche suffered a migraine. Neruda was poisoned. Kerouac died due to heavy drinking. Harrison died of a heart attack. Dhoomil died due to a brain tumor. Schopenhauer was a pessimist. Heidegger was a nihilist. Yeats was a lovesick loser. I don't know whether sickness makes poetry or poetry makes poets sick! Anyway, it cost too much to create plenty of work.
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