Bygone days had swifter wings
That flew over the assorted lands
And brought the harmonious peace
To tune the music and the gong.
Present borrowed mind is leaning
Forward and backward
Backward and forward
Out and in
In and out
Of the closed room.
No knock, no sound, no stem
Comes from the crowded corridor
After a wavering noise of unbreakable syllables
After the heterogeneous mouth’s utterance
After the pronounced morpheme
From the outside room.
The inside room quivers
In fear, in horror it shudders.
On the bed mind struggles
Struggles and cracks, aches and breaks
Breaks and shakes
For no hand comes to weave
The torn fabric in silent peace.
Winning, defeating, defeating and winning
It runs its own spinning
Of worn out fabric like man made machine
Of iron and steel, of hardest wheel.
I have no rest. We have no rest.
Where should I go now? Where shall I run?
Shall I go to a book stall or to station?
Or shall I take an aspirin and rest in oscillation?
What shall I do?
What shall we ever do?
Get up at five and on the bed at ten.
And if hungry, a satisfying lunch
And if thirsty, few drops of filtered water
And if no work at seven in the evening
Either a boasting chat or fifty-two playing cards
And if free at nine in the night
The cosmic news on the screen
And if no sleep at twelve in the midnight
A man of full ambivalence.
We do our formal routine
With respected mind and cunning brain
With cunning brain and respected mind
Like a tired desire of the oldest kind.
The world treads searching
The sense from nonsense
Like a poor young maid
Collecting wastes and fuel
Fuel and food
To us also feed just to the full.
This time offers no rest.
No rest to rest in peace
Except the duty and routine and daily an aspirin.
What shall it profit?
What shall it profit a man
If he wins the whole world
And loses his own soul