There will be time to look back,
A time to regret and enjoy my guilt.
There will be time for me to pack
My memories and hopes that I built
Forgetting my scars and letting go.
There will be time for us to bow
‘Gainst our own decisions; and betraying thee
My love, would be easy knowing
I am meant to be alone, and alone
With you or with none, for loving
This frail and weak heart. Bygone
Are the days of my reasoning and replies;
I shall be the one with no sense,
I shall be the one who only lies
And waits for the coming absence
Of his thoughts who would go numb
Overpowered by the far cries of faith.
Again the same anguish pricks,
The same anger raises its head.
My lustful desire wears holy mantle and shrieks
The mingled cries of faith and bed.
Am I not to be free?
Am I condemned to sin?
What more do I have to see?
In battle for my doom who will win?
Is it not enough that I have suffered?
I have suffered my breaking, my loneliness,
I have suffered and yet my cries are unheard.
I have suffered the pain of harness,
I have suffered the loss of time
And I have lost all I had:
My watch, a cat in prime,
A hundred-rupee note, my notepad,
My family, friends, and me,
Who will get that back?
All my wanderings are trivial
[My body is being decorated for its funeral,
I am going to have my burial.
Oh! But, I’ll have to miss the evening serial,
‘Record that for me, I’ll be back by midnight,
After all I have to get ready very early,
I’ll die again by falling from a height’]
All my memories that I held dearly
Melt and flow with malignant tears,
The bitter ones cut deep and scar,
They have come alive! All my fears,
I shall run far and away, away and far.
But it is my black shadow in darks
That follows me creeping. The skies
Are crowded with ugly little sparks,
The sun is to hide waiting for its rise.
When black night had feasted on us
Then will come… but what will come?
Waiting and waiting and waiting
For a figure heard and read in holy texts—
[The stories of murdering and creating]
All the nows and rest of nexts
[Which I made from scratch!]
Are to disappear and reappear foxily—
With shrill voices and images morbid,
And I am to wait, dreamily or numbly
For my smiling Godot to succeed
In his endeavours of peace and liberty.
For there will be time to remember
That once I had a hope of liberty
From my lost past. The cold December
Just went by reminding me of my losses
And I am left alone in avalanche
Of my unfulfilled desires. Life tosses
And flings me back like sheep on ranch,
Like pebbles on shores of Dover Beach.
Should I speak the voices hushed away?
Will there be any end to coiling mysteries?
“And the Red Death held sway over all”
And all the books of histories
Speak the tales of men killing men.
Claiming land, woman, revenge. But to me
“Death’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.” But one voice remains unheard
One tale remains to be told in time
For no matter what I begin to do
It will always end in despair of my heart.
I am not to be heard, not to be believed
I am neither to be thought of nor spoken of.
Hear me here and now and bury me back
I have never known thee; neither you me.