Skip to main content

A jungle of hell




I lost my way in the woods,
there is no sunshine to caress,
no rain to melt with,
no green to rejoice in,
yet a jungle.

I lost my way in the woods,
with no guffaws of the hyenas,
no chatter of the monkeys,
or the roars of a lion,
yet a jungle.

I lost my way in the woods,
with no pearly falls from the mountain,
no mountain at all,
no chilling breeze cutting through my sweat,
yet a jungle.

I lost my way in the woods,
with not the music of the bamboos,
not the trot of a deary deer,
nor the melody of a cuckoo,
yet a jungle.

I lost my way in the woods,
with not the hunters killing for food,
with not the saw men cutting for good,
nor their intent very pure,
yet a jungle.

I lost my way in this wood,
where there are concrete all around,
bricks that overlay the fertile land,
gummy tar that nullifies the greens of the ancient past,
yet a jungle.

I lost my way in this wood,
where there is no land to plough,
no soil to seed, no shoots to water,
yet food to eat, in the heavy laden plates of gold,
yet a jungle.

I lost my way in this wood,
where animals petted for slaughter,
children petted for labour,
and to men this does not matter,
yet a jungle.

I lost my way in this wood,
where the coffers brim with the silver,
the rich dress in dead worms,
the poor dress in rags,
yet a jungle.

I lost my way in this wood,
in this wood which holds,
the greed of men, the future of mankind,
the reality glazed with diamonds,
Oh! It is hell, yet a jungle!

I lost my way in this wood,
I'd better like to find a way back home,
to me, to humanity,
to the off springs of the greedy, to the greedy itself,
I'd like to be away from this jungle!

Comments

  1. But where does one go? A powerful verse about today's world. It disturbs the mind and soul.

    The repetition of the line, "I lost . . ." brings about the poignancy of the entire scenario and echoes in the head long after one has left this page.

    Joy always,
    Susan

    P. S: Liking the new look. Less complicated and soothing to the eye. Good job.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. I guess that is one major problem that we face, Susan. We can't go anywhere, but we'll have to stand up and face the reality. We'll have to take steps against what we're up for, right? I want the readers to think over this and come up with some solution. I want them to be aware of the reality and take measures to get the best out of the earth rather than destroying it day after day.

      Thanks a ton for your comment, dear Susan. And the simple look of the blog was inspired by many other blogs I visited. :)

      Best,
      Gayathree

      Delete

Post a Comment

Speak your mind

Popular posts from this blog

Within

Image courtesy: world wide web

The stars that connect the sky,  the tides that weave the sea, the pebbles that merge the shore, the trees that mesh the forest, the branches that link the trees,  the leaves that entwine the branches, the sun that lights the horizon, the sky that paints the water, the waters that survives the fish, the fish that eats the seaweeds, the seaweeds that carpets the rocks, the rocks that protects the soil, the soil that strengthens the roots, the roots that keeps alive the trees,  the trees that mesh the forest, the forest that survives the big bears, leopards, and birds, the birds that live on the worms, the worms that protect the soil, the soil that gives birth to crops, the crops that survive the we, the we that eat everything in this big, wild world, the world in us is the world outside, the outside that reflects the inside, the inside that is abstract, the abstract is opaque, yet translucent, the translucence of the sun rays in a muddled dew drop at daw…

To write is to dwell

FEBRUARY 15th, 2012





















What writing means to me...

As lonely as a cloud, as boring as boredom itself, I was. I grew up as a typical child at school but a very hefty one, I am still the same. I managed to cheer people with my innocence but did not manage to make happy friends to last a lifetime because of my gross physique. I couldn't play as I had no playmates at home and my only hobby was to sit and watch tv.

When I was studying in kindergarten, I used to visit a nearby shop with my dad. My dad was busy shopping for groceries and I engaged myself in observing things around me. The people who had mixed emotions that outshone on their faces, an old man cycling with a lot of strain, probably getting back home, the lady vendor with her dirty saree pinned up to her waist and squatting on the floor, selling vegetables, the autowala bargaining with his potential customer, the green trees which arched high with its countless leaves, the flowers that smile at me on the road side, happy child…

I'm too shallow to write a verse

I'm too shallow to write a verse To wrap around the twists and turns To dwell unto my own, I do Living somebody else's life or my own? Shrouded under piles of thought, I scribble, thinking only of the applause.
I'm too shallow to write a verse or two To make ends meet, I'm too cuckoo. I'm not the classic, scratching blue wooing 'em, tearing 'em apart  with every word.
I'm not the one who rhymes nor the one with notes for those lyrics. I'm the one who scribbles blotching blue on all my troubles, roiling over moments back and forth, trying to string those stray words, into at least a doggerel. See, I don't make sense.  I told you, I'm too shallow to pen that sonnet, that ballad, that haiku, that refrain, that ode.
I'm forcing it out all that gibberish snowballed  unto mine, to chime and rhyme  but nevertheless I realise in time, I'm to shallow to be read over cheese and wine.