Four Walls

A beautiful box in the golden morning when you are watering plants At midday a workshop where you are providing me with the ladder In the evening a walled closet to transform the personality and gravity At night you first gather the stars, pour them on my body, which then Enters my system defeating the platelets Finally they get me to pieces that go above and twinkle and beckon me Perhaps someday I will have some dream All enclosed by the same four walls, day in and day out, -- with no sprout. Or, --an entwining infatuation where you are led into barriers, failures, and frustration on the absolute four walls enclosed and encumbered By more fight, hospital, tears, stench, begging, than smile and pleasure But nevertheless are fated to come back to the same ruthless four walls Regardless of they will hold you or unhold, for the simple reason that the four walls are an enchanted garden to you. Nay, the very life is so. Whether stand or fall, you are always and always back to the four walls. Perhaps the truth strangest of all. At the moment, here, the four walls are the well known animal farm. We are being packed into asking us not to unfold our wings up or down For the sky and ocean which are doors to precarious disintegration “Clip them for the walls. Stand or fall, stay at the walls”. The dictum. Religion, Nationalism, Caste, Class, Faith, Institutions, all very tall walls We hate inclusivity; the walls are programmed to warn us in the room. For poets of the soup, however, four walls are four pleasant horizons Ever expanding and contracting as if a cosmic inhalation leading to happy exhalation in an unending rhythm of life pulsating the heart and sustaining the ever greening poetry. The world pauses to salute them. Walls with windows let in million footfalls. Back at the wall, but eyes and ears unhindered at the air and sky. Joying to live till the day they die. ________________________________________________________________ 23 February, 2016