Juxtapose Craziness etched in his twinkling eyes Conspicuous under the concealing disguise. Lips pursed, a nose sharp as a bird’s, He sipped his tea silently, not uttering a word. Fingers trembling over his fast-beating heart, Dressed in an elegant shirt – splendid and smart. He had come from as far as far could go, Farther than the river under the bridge would go. He had come to do business, a risky business it was, Traveling for months together, not without a pause. Of course, he visited Benazir, the beautiful maid, Spent a day together, hoping the sun would never fade. He stopped at the bank to extract gold and money, With an honest face and an accent just as funny. He was silent, shrewd, insightful and sharp, With a piercing sight and words that were marked. He then visited his uncle, the old wreck down south, Drinking lonely, swearing at the top of his mouth. But he had no time to pay heed to forlorn men, For he was in a rush to leave, not a hand to lend. Making his way through Syria, Iraq and Iran, Zabol, Kandahar and mighty Pakistan. He had a rendezvous with a fat man on the scurry, Murdering his wife but forgetting to bury. Our man, pretentious, instantaneous and smart, Managed to charm this voluptuous man’s heart. Before he could ask how far our man had come, He was tied to death, lacking the voice to ask from. Our man looted his goods - as on his mind was a witty plan, He was to head for New Delhi – the mother of all lands. He killed many on his way, lacking the epiphany of dismay, For he had no morals, no love, no feelings of glory or laurels. Yet he was clever, wealthy and unassumingly bright. But his goodness wouldn’t return, try hard as he might. He lost his family in war, along with the peace they fought for. His mind was blocked, his happiness was mocked, and he could take no more. He would kill all the people who had killed him, Revenge for the pain that filled him. Henceforth began his journey of unending slaughter, Principles and humanity slipping away like water. He had killed Benazir, his uncle and the man without a voice, For they were in his path – he found not another choice. Finally, seated in Delhi’s tea shop was he, with an ambition as crazy as could be. Staring with watery eyes at the customers inside, Whether to kill or not, was for him to decide. Sipping his beverage with feigned stillness and joy, His mind pulsated yet his thoughts began to deploy. Wiping his eyes and reaching for his heart, Pressed a button, and he trembled with a start. And as fast as it had come, the shiver had passed, But now his pulse increasing, adrenaline gushing fast. Why anything hadn’t happened, he wondered in a hurry, Yet the moment died, and not a thought was left to worry. The blast caved in the café – leaving behind debris and dust, Not a man alive to avenge, to hate, to fuss. For our man had killed all hatred with his hate, Not even leaving his own death to godly fate. Had he realized, death is not a reason but an excuse, Death is not when you’re lonely and have nothing to lose. Death is the end of the inner soul, the fire within, And the shelter of optimism that humans live in. The death of our man was subtle yet profound, An epitome of the pessimism one can mound. How far had he gone with his lack of love? Would he ever be forgiven by the almighty above? Revenge is the loss of character and not the gain of rage, One can live a new life; turn to a new page, For life is neither sand to lose nor wealth to win, It is the power to love, and the willingness to give in. For life is neither immortality nor the strength to defeat, It is the emotion of goodwill and the bewilderment of deceit. For death will come, but arrive on its own, It is not to hurt or to kill or bemoan. So let this poem, leave not an impression of a story or the boredom of a teaching, Let it relieve you of your hatred and remain not simply as a preaching. For dreams may be forgotten and memories may live on, But the secret of life lies in the happiness you give on. As this poem ends, It tries to mend, All the loss of humanity and death of compassion, With its lines of sensation and feelings of passion. For the reader himself shall behold, The happiness that sorrow truly withholds. -Aditya S. Pendyala
Posted on: Thu, 06 Mar 2014 11:01:32 +0000