I break into a mirthless titter,
anger dissolving in serine of cynicism;
In a land where motive matters less,
survival breeding surreal malice,
tongues frothing into pools of schism,
heart gasping for life in the gutter,
a query leaps- what do you look for?
“Perish the thought dost” spoke a voice,
the voice of Aswathama, my beloved tramp;
“Can you still whirlpool on the swamp?
Does not the river continue to flow,
Kabir sing on the Ganges bank?
Pull up, dost, never feel low,
sing and clap the world of the ditch;
A long way I came, down the dank
tunnel of pettiness, bemused but rich;
He sighed; “The Sun has risen now
on the day of cloning; Design, not sow,
the seed; Brain’s buzz has left mind
a faint echo in the eons; the language
of great voices has lost its script;
Vice is virtuous, virtue vicious
in revolving mirrors; Time for a hermit
to watch the emerging sky of nothingness.