Memories are just versions-
some are real, some made up.
When truth finds no diversion-
we conveniently dream up.
Mysteries are glorified.
And the history is blurred.
War and peace are storified
for we like the written word.
A myth is passed on as fact-
unaware what truth it lacks.
Leaders talk back and forth in their lingos.
The interpreter stands by translating.
The future of the world is mapped and coursed
as people around live in hope- waiting.
But somehow the interpreter blunders.
Exchange of dialogues turns ambiguous.
People now stand stupefied in wonder,
and the curious become furious.
Unaware that the language was twisted-
the chaos these leaders fail to fathom.
Toil is wasted for the time invested.
The peace-talks become a meaningless hum.
Was this an error or just theatre?
The interpreter becomes the scripter.
In the mornings they come wagging their tails-
fluttering eyes intent on buttering.
Let us out - they shriek with cajoling hails-
my demeanour melts at these utterings.
Kismis wobbles and rolls towards the gate
prodding me to open their heaven’s door.
And poor Kaju stares in a trancelike state,
but imitates Kismis’s fancy uproar.
Sometimes I ignore their silly gimmicks,
and pretend to silently walk away.
But these naughty rascals know all the tricks
so swiftly they chase, nudge and block my way.
So I open the gate and let them loose-
soon they will find something else to amuse.
There is a stamp with a glaze-
triangles on frill border.
It has my wrinkled old face
enhanced by talcum powder.
I shall now travel the world,
and I will be recognised-
this aged wine sweetly mulled
labelled with a wee bit price.
Rail, road, sea, take me by air
till the day I become rare.
All my journals are stored in the attic-
along with albums, letters and what not.
For years on they will remain there static
till they just become some entangled knots.
Sometimes I pass by and look up at them-
silently they sit with a calm repose.
Filled with my thoughts and writings are these gems-
and my picture with a beautiful pose.
I climb the attic to clear the old web.
Could I discard these memories for space?
Tears flow, emotions at their lowest ebb-
but soon this maze new tidings shall replace.
New books, new photos- the attic ages.
And yet remains the scent of those pages.
Rain pelts its relentless spears.
Few shelters, few souls they pierce.
Drenched in water, thirst not quenched-
I guzzle couple of beers.
I immerse myself in a hot bathtub.
Foam spreads its warmth across my tired body.
With a perfumed soap lazily I scrub,
and close my eyes thinking of nobody.
The bubbles rise, fall and burst everywhere-
mingle with the froth of icy champagne.
My limbs get pampered, my bones are repaired
as the scented vapour relieves my pain.
I sip the sparkling wine with eyes still closed.
But sense the twirls of steam float in the air.
Invisible fingers massage my brows.
The music I hum has a heady flair.
Pleasure courses through, despair disappears-
could the clock stop - the future not appear?
