Epitaph


I Hear No Voice

– Lavanya Taneja

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The Wasteland


This is a wasteland; the scavengers hunt on indefinite rhythms
Grounded around our erratic sun.
This is a wasteland; the nightmares we dream haunt our visions
While all our horrors are eternally spun.
This is a wasteland; its history demands no account and no preface
Hoping a better tomorrow will come.
This is a wasteland; its barrenness steady, its challenges endless,
Till our humanities slowly succumb.

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Dogs On The Train


This is the wrong side of the tracks
Where as children, we would walk on the rails
Balancing
Both ourselves and the affairs of our world
With careless abandon,
With joy of anonymity,
And with little knowledge of things —
The pointed edges of our flying wings
Flapping like those of merry birds.

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Larger Than Life


One grey day, an ashen street oversaw our tryst;
The ripples we made in the water spread afar.
This stillness of our lives challenged by whistling lips,
Succumbed to shuffling feet, succumbed to lazy cheer.
Like pigeons in the town whom no cages may hold —
And the footsteps we traced would be encased in gold.

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My Thoughts At His Funeral


Perspective distorts; thus shrouded in robes
Professing dreams of life, my neighbour died
In sleep. Relinquishing all assumed roles
In society, shrouded in death, he lied
On a deathbed professing dreams; his wife
In tears inconclusive, with cheeks moistened
In mirth or strife; moistened for want of life,
Moistened just, but alive; all friends reasoned
That this death in sleep saved him pain; dying
In dreams is painless; but it’s just dying.

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