The Traveller’s Tale


when i left home the dreams returned
a long, long time ago unsung, those had left
amidst homes broken and wasted, and multiple bodies charred
oh! it was just some stuffs ordinary
maybe not, but in time the memories have lost
now even the path i would need to seek
even for the home always so familiar, has become stranger
irony isn’t in the journey so twisty
it is in the meaninglessness
that, tersely tells the trodden trail

en route i

people, people everywhere,     nobody to talk to
the verdure at home on one hand;     other, in other’s the exceptionally dry terrain
wise men say it is the duality     answer-less it remains though
then it occurs             the walk is the meaning
and i found it on the way     ―the sideways; the billboards
life is writing a tale,     a travelling tale
so far maybe             lies the destination
one word a time         hardly consciously the steps drag forward

en route ii

the roads are scattered,     assorted, amalgamated
i’m not where i should be    i’m just where i’m
where is the family fitted in    when nobody makes sense
existence is a collection    population
the tremendous aggregation    in the sideways sways
envious it is              even animals care not for the president
void the bloody nations are     the pissing area they call countries
when intelligence is overrated    even the gods have gone, laying low
maybe would they wake up    on any day of the festivals ceaseless
when obscure is the destination     even the journey matters not

en route iii

the midways are lined with departure points
it’s only the bloody people blocking the road, building the tolls
when it is more worrying it has been many Mays that have gone by
seven years, eight years are quite a long time to be away
i’m back at the departure
the buildings are made of concrete and the hearts of stone
the clichés of city have destroyed the silence
As much as the deforested jungles do
When living is the only hope the home has lost its meaning.



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