Some discontent stirs in me
At times when I walk in this campus—
Old questions I had learnt not to ask,
Old yearnings and desires,
Boomerang on me, leaving me
Seething with anger and hatred.
I look around with vague anxiety,
See the wilderness amid the urbanity—
O look at the thistle,
Sprouting out luxuriously
Like body hair after shaving,
The cctv cameras,
Dangling like pompous penises,
Tattered flags mounted on twisted flagpoles,
Waving like a drowning man’s hands,
These walls stripped naked,
Like eucalyptus leaves off its bark,
The earthquake-broken temple,
Still seeking obeisance,
Withering like fallen pipal leaves,
The demi-goddesses of knowledge,
Weary and mute, like a bottlebrush tree,
Sheds muted cries.
Students who suck on beer bottles
Roll cigarettes, and watch porn at lunch breaks
Mutter red manifestos under their breath—
Never a lull in their noises.
Their blood boils,
Sweat pours off their brows,
And a long screech of Shangri-La attracts
These buildings, huddled together,
Like gourd vines—
Climbing, twining, creeping.
There is redness everywhere—
The hush of the revolution is red,
The rage of the unknown is red,
The replica of broken slogans
Carved on the toilet walls is red:
long live deemoocraacy!
down with hypoocrissy!
All of these remind me of my broken dreams—
The way I wanted to be somewhere else,
The way I wanted to be someone else—
Every time I enter this campus of redness,
A beehive collapses in my mind,
Petrified of its drones and stings,
I sleepwalk like souls in purgatory,
While all the while my life falls into
The yawning abyss of rancor.
An agony of doubt stings me
And a numbness pains my senses.
These buildings are dying,
Nothing will remain here in the yards,
Even these walls are sagging,
Even these bricks are unsalable.
With redness, they thought
They had beaten the system,
Made intellectual choices—
Look how they are failing!
All that remains here
Is their rotten luxury
Of red manifestos—
One day soon will turn
Into absolute emptiness—
There will only be dung-heap
Of emptiness, plying on
More and more emptiness.
From that vast stretch
Of oceanic emptiness,
Atop that mutilated corpse
Of buildings, of streets, of courtyards,
Of red manifestos,
Inhaling the foul smell of rottenness,
I sit cross-legged,
Like some bloody Buddha,
Poetry by Bibek
Read 62 times
Written on 2018-11-10 at 16:14
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