Saturday, 21 March 2015

There is a strangely familiar field in a distant land. It's surrounded by woods being decayed for centuries. Despite the decadence around, that field is oddly fertile, as if giving a shelter to everything that escaped the deprivation in the surroundings. It faces the clear blue sky everyday, trying to keep the fecundity intact, facing its utter solitude. The field shuns away anything that is not worthy of effort that it mustered to survive the tyranny of atrophy, accepted readily by its fellow grains in the surrounding.
It's an utterly difficult and lonely task, sowing seeds and watching them grow in that land, for it has been very skeptical and selective of what ever tends to penetrate it. But someone has to do it. The land deserves to be skeptical and still receive the effort, to be difficult and still receive the touch and to be complex and still receive the simplicity of an even more complex farmer, who ploughs that field everyday. That land deserves that, more than anything.

Tuesday, 17 March 2015

The Empty Classroom

I saw you
sitting in an empty class room,
listening to a pink floyd song,
head resting on your elbow
eyes staring each bench, one by one
trying you were
to look and find
people on those benches,
hearing instead
the winds playing with the dust and the light,
the benches got filled
slowly and blatantly
by the questions you were asked,
and you failed to answer
and the interrogater was not satisfied
that filled you with pain,
that pain and failure
are the only people you'll find
occupying every desk
and even the dice.