The gambling of diaspora.
Each place is an imagined solace where
peace sojourns… just sojourns.
The line ascends from sacrifice to sacrifice.
now it should be the return to the former.
Still the ethereal other abides
with the purest purity, divine at core.
I remain passive to the verdict of ‘shoulds’
as I know that ‘should’ is dependent
but I am not.
I think. I believe.
No! Perhaps, I try to do it.
I doze off.
I dream of a single horse
which bears me on back, runs ahead of fate
and takes me to a fairy land.
The pink roses bloom on my cheeks again
and a violet irons my lips.
One dew drags the morn the whole way till eve
then the careless moonlight cares.
I’ll again dream of my sweetest past
lending out a soft shadow beside.
I saw myself climbing the rainbow
with a magic wand and a fairy attire
a garland of daffodils, a girdle of lilacs
and all was green on both the sides.
Somehow I slipped and fell in the dark
and all was dark with patches of grey.
Just one moment. The difference.
I wake up in the hot sun.
Lips go apart, smiles too, inexpressive.
My teeth visibly distorted, hard to chew in the truth
and I start all over again.
Excuses subside. No space more.
The gambling of diasporas. Scrambled.
Each place is an imagined solace, an injured one where
peace sojourns… just sojourns in a dreamy waking state