Sharp, incisive, sure
Not knowing who or what picks it
To get a job done
Follows orders well
Can clean up mess or make one
Thinks that it can think
Plods through foamy thoughts
Prepares the field every day
Makes it smooth and fine
Evil, like stubbles
Raises its head, must be slayed
New missions each day
Am I who holds it?
Am I the one who pushes?
Is the command mine?
Am I the barber?
Am I the stylist with flair?
Does it hear my voice?
I think I’m happy
That my clean face every day
Is mine to lay claim
Well, I also see
My own mess being washed away
And I am happy
The hand does it all
The hand, hand-held, just obeys
My hand is like me
The face unattended
Ruthlessly uncared for isn’t
The art of living
.
.
.
Who holds the razor? – A poem
.
.
.
Arvind Passey
10 April 2016
