'who are you? '
'isn't that a stupid question?
don't you know me as indira? '
'are you that? '
'...who told you? '
'come on, that's the limit! '
'...come on, i say!
does the tree know
it's tree?
does the dog know
it's dog?
the list can be endless, you see
why this obsession
for an identity...? '
the voice faded...
08dec2009
05.34hrs
I too talk ot myself.. it depends though. i got many names.. personalities.. known know each other. sometimes, im a log, and i dont answer, or ask. i just sit there. :) . like your poem milady
love this Indira.....i'm glad to know i'm not the only one having conversations with myself....if you haven't yet, do read my poem 'Doors and Mirrors'
I think u know the story of Sri Ramana Maharshi of Arunachalam. When he was 12 or 13, he heard of a sage of the hill; went there and knocked the hut's door. Came a voice, Who are you? . He replied 'My name is so and so' Then came the reply, 'Get out'. The next day again Ramana Maharshi went and knocked the door. Came a voice, 'Who are you'. This time Ramana Maharshi gave more details, like his name, father's name, caste, etc. This time even more harshly came the reply 'get out'. Third time when he went, when questioned, Who are you, he answered humbly 'I came here to know that'. Then the saint opened the door and took him inside. What happend later is history.
the obsession for an identity - well pointed - you must give an ear to that mystic voice more often... maybe it comes from very far away...
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
i wish the voice to fade forever; for all, indira.....brilliant poem, dear.....