All his sons
K. Radhakumar *
The sun has gone to bed.
It's time for bed
And recharge one's batteries,
Rain or shine.
I lie on the bed
And do not get a wink of sleep.
If only I were the son of the sun.
I know I need to get some sleep;
Some sleep
Or my tomorrow will be like today
And yesterday was no different.
Day after day
I have waited for
Light looming on the horizon.
Ah, my life is a wasted journey.
All autobiographies are fictions.
There are liars in this world
Who try to tell stories
When there are no coherent ones.
My life is nothing
But an endless flow of consciousness
Which cuts from the present to the past
From an ethical framework to obscenity.
If the censor cuts, nothing will remain
And this play will never be a play.
I go along with the current
But the night hears a cry:
This is not what I like
This is not what I like
This is not at all what I like.
My wife
Our children and I!
How are we linked?
Between my education
And my job
Comes a recurring question.
I put on a play -
A subtle performance
But it lacks soul.
* Poem written by K. Radhakumar which was published at The Sangai Express
This poem was webcasted on June 18, 2018.
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