Tuesday, August 5, 2008


He has seen them,
seen those wars build great legacies.
He felt her,
sensed her create songs.

He saw those little kids,
jumping on the
springy skeletal remains of the burnt couch.

His eyes have seen,
two trees,
fighting for space on the river side.
His heart has cried for the river,
that flowed in ambiguity.


One brilliant summer,
he was sent to the Bahamas
He swam with the wild men,
and he saw the love in the water.

He talked to himself,
named himself,
Mister Me.


His little home,
by the miner's den,
was a dream like figure.
It ate prostitutes by night,
and drank the men playing cards,
in the noon.
And,when Me was not somewhere else,
it smiled.

He was sent for the War,
came back injured;
brought home a bride as well.
He works in the Postal now.
she sells potatoes and herself,
in the market these days.

His children smoke,
in their garage,
and practise rock with the neighbourhood junkies.

They prefer the stone game as,
and still do not wear full length trousers on their own.


The burnt couch,
was brought,
(Me does not remember if it was bought),
from the Gulf country.

He lost half of his letters,
he works works as a gardener now.
His wife is in the same job.
His kids,
one ran away to the Rockies.
The other,
is sick now.


and caprice,
his jobs varied just like his mind.


his grave stone stands tall,
his house is a grave yard now,
peddlers meet here by night.

His wife died of the disease.
His son never returned.
The other one,
opened a rehab.


The grave reads,
"To Me".