Words won’t roll into metaphors
As they are busy staring at dried taps
Words no longer bother to rhyme
Because droughts appear without gaps
Words struggle to walk straight but tumble
It is the heat that makes them stumble
Coherence has given way to a mumble
Even anger is an inaudible rumble!
And yet words are all that his mind has
Jumbled they may be, but yet they ask
Are constantly around him, surround him
As they get busy with their final task
The decision-makers rush around in cars
With jugs and mugs full of chilled drinks
They want to get back to watch cricket
Out and away from socio-economic kinks
So they weave stories from the words they see
The words that the thirsty villages know
The villagers wonder at the beauty of dreams
That their own words have the power to show!
But when the back of powerful men is turned
And dried, lifeless, hungry, thirsty, without hope
The same words turn dark and gloomy
And wish they could transform into a rope
But words that cannot live as a poem
Cannot possibly take a life on their own
So they dance into different shapes until
Killer thoughts are out, thrown.
Some such words once said to me:
I don’t need dreams that aren’t mine
Just leave for me and my fields
Water, food and the poet who is fine!
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The poet inside the farmer who might commit suicide
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Lines from this poem are mentioned by Blogadda in Blogosphere:
2016_04_12_Blogadda_blogosphere_poem on farmer suicides
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Arvind Passey
06 April 2016
