Of Half Stories & Half Characters

You’ve become so obnoxious in your obsession
You’re going mad with the never-ending death in your own lap
Telling me the tales of doom
At all times you have a new tale or two—each new day, 

You would have been a nagging spouse.
But me, I’m running out of patience with your motif
Blood, bombs, bullets and more blood, bombs, bullets,
If you must, do tell me about your lilies and orchids

Tell me about your mountains and your lakes and your love
Again, I’m sick of your tales of doom
I’m sick of your tales of doom; please stop reciting,
I hear about you in others’ narratives too

All along your obsession as much as in your story-telling
It’s to be the main character; but it’s just been absurd
While with ease, you have proven the relativity of the universe:
The more you want, the less you have

And it has been all plain: how you have been footnoted
Depreciated downrightly even in their dénouements,
You’re only good in being the insignificant static character
Albeit you still do a lot better than Bollywood.

But again, I’m sick of your tales of doom
I’m sick of your tales of gloom,
I’m disillusioned
Hopeless—not a degree above or below your stories,

Manipur, stop reciting your tales.


An unrelated poem:
In the Land of Half-People
A translation of Thangjam Ibopishak’s prose poem Mee Tangkhaigi Leibaak



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