Wild Canvas

When a man dies he never cries;
Others cry for him.
When a baby is born, he cries;
Others around rejoice.
Is it the cry of the dead heard from babe’s mouth?
Perhaps the anguish of an unaccomplished soul
Reburdened to suffer another life.
Life – it’s groping in the dark.

We grope thus hand in hand,
So you also fall when I do,
Sometimes there is light,
I succumb to it and you stumble.
Sometimes there is an obstacle,
I avoid it; guide it to you.
And this betrayal goes on.
But do we learn? Learn to cooperate??
We remain aliens till the final march.
Yeah! Aliens – to the way truth is.

The sky is bright and blue,
There is not a cloud to spoil the view.
But still rains in our hearts –
So when I march we actually move backwards,
And that’s the we have traveled all along—
From a barbaric worshipper to THE CREATOR.
But do we feel? Feel happiness.
It remains a mirage till the final battle.
Yeah! Mirage – I have searched it here, there, in outer space, everywhere.

The cycle of life chugs along – birth and death
Come and go and the war goes on –
We jumble up identities,
Identities – who are you? Who am I??

I am the body. Nay!
I am the intellect. Nope!
Then I am the mind.
Perhaps all the above, or perhaps none.
Or perhaps a conglomeration of cells;
Cells which work incoherently for individual existence!
The chorus grew louder and deafening.
And then his rhythm rhymes thy,
And the sound of silence is audible.
There is no happiness now ---
I am happiness.
You are a drop of consciousness in an ocean and I am you.