The Masked Painter
K. Radhakumar *
Reality disturbs me.
Never have I been so deeply disturbed before…
I don't know why it does now.
Maybe I am getting old,
Maybe it is the turbulent times we live in.
I always wake to my morning.
My morning!
There she stands,
Feeling deeply wronged,
By the long sleepless night.
Her drunkard of a husband
Wakes up from a terrible hangover;
The hot and noisy morning has to take
The blame for everything.
He takes a long drink of water
And then tries to sleep off the hangover.
Why do I always wake to my morning
But never to the real morning
Uncontaminated like a glass of water in the sunshine?
What, pray, is the meaning of this -
I always wake to my morning
But never to the real one?
I feel I am a prism
A solid geometrical figure
Into the making of which goes
My education, my culture, my mind, my everything…
Everything passes through this checkpoint;
He is a good friend
And once you pass him in the street,
He will say hello.
The prism sees a tree
Draws it and colour.
I see myself through this prism
I see the world through this prism
And there is no mistake.
The real morning will smile with the rising sun
When I am dead and gone.
* Poem written by K. Radhakumar which was published at The Sangai Express
This poem was webcasted on February 26, 2019.
* Comments posted by users in this discussion thread and other parts of this site are opinions of the individuals posting them (whose user ID is displayed alongside) and not the views of e-pao.net. We strongly recommend that users exercise responsibility, sensitivity and caution over language while writing your opinions which will be seen and read by other users. Please read a complete Guideline on using comments on this website.