Solitary-Poet

Swirling sand – Forms little mountains,
At my feet – then disappears,
Re-appearing elsewhere.
Sweat pours – Little blood droplets
From open wounds – Every parched pore,
Stung by the sweltering heat.

Fire, kindled by the desert heat-
Burns furiously,
Turns droplets into rain,
Pouring endlessly.
Looking vainly within themselves,
For pity – none comes,
Strangely resistant, stubborn – stuck,
To their own intent.

Nearby – hear wailings,
Familiar breaking of a rainbow,
Of bangles – old tradition,
New widows – from war, battles lost,
Can’t discern the difference.
Blood – cut hands,
From broken bangles,
Flows freely – mingles with tears,
From mothers – who grieve?
Beating their chests – another tradition,
Berating their own pity and destiny.

Emotionless – stand, pause,
Then move – Not waiting
Wiping tears of blood,
Comforting wailing mothers,
Patching broken bangles,
Strewn around on the swirling sand,
Consumed easily by their endless motion,
Desert hides its own and
Pain of those around me.
Numbed, indifferent –
Continue on – carrying shreds of sorrow,
Still wailing – not complete.

Waling – now turns into ashes,
Burning become the end of a journey.
Desert wind blows fiercely,
Scatters embers, ashes –
Remnants of burning logs, bone and skin
Dried droplets of love and blood,
Into the air.
Move on – again, Indifferent – emotionless,
Carry the weight of all deeds,
Evidence of our judgment.

I am here – someday,
Motionless – being covered by swirling sands,
Indifference surrounding me.
Wailing myself, breaking my own bangles,
Awaiting judgment –
My own indifference and deeds.
Not comforting – wailing widows and mothers.
Not being – the one to be grieved,
For fighting fruitless wars and battles lost.

I – on reaching journey’s end,
Be cleansed – reach out and comfort,
Grieving widows and mothers,
Be the one to be grieved.
And become, once again, reborn –
Walk the swirling sands, shifting continuously,
Tears of blood, sweat drenching from every pore,
On the land beneath my feet.