Sunday, 13 January 2013

The Debt

What debt must we repay with our own flesh

To you, who lurks in the shadows?

What do we owe to you?

My maker, my seeker

At last, my destroyer.

What garb must I adorn that you,

Cannot tear away?

Now that I’m naked within

your eyes?

Shall I melt my vengeance and make it rain

On this parched land of mine?

Where wishing wells of mothers have dried

And fathers bereft of wishes would rather,

Turn the other way?

Should I crush my retribution and

Plant it in a pot?

Watch it grow day by day

Watch its tendrils choke my throat, like sinister vines

Or have its roots feed me

And its shade enclose me

Till I forget myself,

And drown.

Know that I will repay this bruise

And the flesh you crave.

Shall I beat down my retaliation?

And throw it in a pot

Cook it for my unborn child

All the while,

Thousand eyes watching

And a thousand faces spew out

Their whispers of poison.

But no, I shall shape my revenge

Like the sickle your fathers

Used to wield.

Sharpen the blade with words,

Timid things on my tongue

Nurse my wounds,

Watch this body sow what

you decided

To reap violently,

Till it grows strong

With my iron will

Shackled no more,

Within this parched land of mine,

Where, one day, the clocks will stop keeping time,

Someday the reasons will realign

One day, you shall face what you design.

1 comment:

Pranita Kocharekar said...

A bunch of zillion drifting thoughts put together in one beautiful, long poem. Sigh, Aazar. :)