MY IDOL:: PRAMATH MALIK
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
CURFEWED NIGHT
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Dance of life
The sand blew and the clouds grew.
Was it raining or the sky was mourning.
His dad threw him out,
Lost and lonely he walked the silent path,
Silent yet melancholy, melancholy yet not pitiable.
Lad was sobbing, sobbing made him shudder.
The shuddering was the dance of life......
Known to the known, yet very unknown
Reached the marsh, marsh was dry.
Tears streamed down the eyes.
Dryness soaked in his tears.....
Marsh was again alive
Tears that were for dad, dad suffocated his childhood.
Darker than darkest, he saw faces.
Faces that were painted, painted in black, grey and blue
But white faces were very few.
People rushed with cold vibes in zigzag.
Avoiding a collision with him.
The pattern of avoidance was dance of life.....
Wolves howling, caricatures climbing,
The artist in boy learnt to make faces.
Faces black, grey and blue.
Those asking for white were very few....
Winter came early in life, life brought calm.
Calmness spread its sheet in the life.
Boy smoked, drank and was making merry...
But he craved for faces; faces not grey black and blue...
But for white those only were very few.
The desires and dreams still existed in dreams.
Huh.....The dance of life.
Always painting in his cottage, cottage locked.
Lock tight, keys thrown in the river,
Some river cried...streams of white water rushed downstream.
There were knocks, knocks to be avoided.
Some called for him, others respected his seclusion,
Others were furious and abused...
But what for the knocking was the dance of life??
Knock knock..
One was the coldest knock ever,
The artist raised his eyes,
He knew death had come, to ease him.
To release him.
Take him to where he truly belong...
He threw all his painted faces...
Water from the river spilled all over.
It was horrible....
The death clasped him....
This was the dance of life....
People still come to make faces...
Faces black grey and blue...
But the one with white are few.....