The riddles on your complex face
asking me about the confused I
a few centuries ago.
And I, surprised with the question
went to the place where old stones cry,
but the meadows are silent
the mountains are freezed
the rivers flow alone.
Then you, a victim of yesterday's nightmare
woke up without a smile
with the eyes still in a dream.
You don't cry today
as you did yesterday,
since sunrise to sunset
you talk only about the past,
walk to and fro through the untrodden lanes
where centuries old foot-prints of forefathers have lost.
Then you look at the mirror
ask questions after questions
about the forgotten and burried "I"s
inside the heart of the civilized history we call,
but the image
the projection of an incomplete object
simply points the ancient door
closed since time immemorial,
then lost itself inside the old graveyards
nobody came and flowered.
Long time ago
before dinner, Grandma narrated fables
we slept on her lap hearing it.
Today those fables waking us up
I can't sleep.
----R.K. Brojen Singh----
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