Wednesday, 9 February 2011

Frank Sinatra, "When the Wind Was Green"



The art of traveling,
is to live your days at the most idealized stage;
is to absolve your qualms of doing something which you normally do on the sly.

For me it was to renounce my daily duties, mortal responsibilities.
And my daily courses were almost the same:
reading without worrying about the protraction of my writer's block;
writing without fussing over the precision of words, the consistency of logics;
dreaming without dreading its boundary.
So time squandered away greedily.

One day I went to an old traditional garden in a slightly unopportune time,
for the supposedly wholesome atmosphere has retreated to dogged hibernation-
desolation seeped in.
Everything could be in a most unwelcoming dilapidation,
but their enticement swept over you as if tickling by fuzz.
For a second it even seemed favorable to be dead than alive.

It all happened to me as a tourist,
who exerted my liberty of being someone I illusioned.
Wearing bluffing disguise in this guileless world,
yet a masked-face can hardly smile wider before a drop of rain was sensed.

Every auspicious journey belied numerous dealings with god.
Just like sublimating your excuses for eating sweets.
Multitudes of candy you wolved down unawaringly,
and you promised to deserve your punish afterward.

Great blows of stomache ensued expectedly.
Because the end of a journey consolidated your constant role of an anchorless tourist.
The world itself is a crystal ball which lures you to give touches,
and once your fingerprints mar its beauty,
you will be condemned for your involuntary blunder.

So they gather not a whiff of impetus to push you over.
As every place you go there is a magnifying-glass that forces you to reality.
Broadcasters are provided too if such matter did not reach you accurately.

After an ambitious journey of swaggering my elephantine self,
I went back to my nest again to dream to be a fearless little girl,
in this apparently bumbling world striving to be incorrigible.

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"How arrives it joy lies slain,
And why unblooms the best hope ever sown?"- Thomas Hardy, "Hap"

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