In the bazaar of conscience
We sell vestiges of notions
That we held close to our breasts
When home was mother’s lap
Or humped spaces on crooked boughs
And bliss two candies worth
Or a splash in village ponds.
But now we have sold
Our dove-eyed souls
And like a majestic eagle peck –
Blasé to the emanating odor –
The dead pigeon’s flesh; and when bloated
We leave the rest for others
In nature’s design to feast upon.
© Dan Husain
April 19, 2005
1 comment:
I hope you dont mind me adding this small thought that your poetry instilled.
where the colours go faint,
hung in my own sorrows,
like a linen set out to dry,
in the sun, 'you'
when it visited, it took away my colours,
the same i put in with so much desires,
now only fainted by your scorch,
I seek shelter in my mother's veil.
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