Knotty, natty netas

It is election time again.
They serenade well-versed songs
In well-rehearsed tunes,
With voices that seem as exotic
As those of the gypsies who sing
For us in railway compartments.
They blow discarded conches,
Beat mildew-leathered drums,
And rake up fires from wounded embers.
They tear our flesh with gnarled claws
And now look for the poor man’s lost face
In the muddled kaleidoscope,
‘Where has he gone, my golden goose?’
And, ah! The pity is, we do away
With our votes, like we part
With some change, when
Filled with a sense of pity
For the singing minstrels in trains.

C.DEEPESH

From inside the train

Another lazy afternoon whizzed past me.
As I move, something misses out.
I feel as though moving into darkness.
Soon night will come. I can see
The sun on my left, its aura
Through the corner of my eye,
Struggling to stay longer. I know
It won’t, it can’t. There are no
Crowds anymore. People are
Done with their ablutions.
I can smell rain in the cool
Breeze splashing against my face.
I know it won’t rain, it can’t.
I can feel the speed- of my movement.
What will come at the end of my journey?
Most people with me seem to be doubtful.
But I know. I will reach another of my
Worlds. It is only a movement, from one
Familiarity to another.
The faces change and so do the relations.
But I know one thing for sure- I can be myself.
Well, almost!

C.DEEPESH