The Blurred and Vague Image of an Important Man

 

Adults like to shoot a question to children a lot and that is: What would you like to become when you grow up. And children too in their pure ignorance of the ways of the world conjure up an answer only to be forgotten the very next day, or perhaps because they have to give an answer to not appear dumb, blatantly lie: “A doctor! A scientist! (Some billionaire)! (Some insanely famous player)!”

But what they really have in their minds is an image, a blurred one of some important person, well suited up, who most likely has deep pockets, is well respected, deemed intelligent, who at his whim could purchase a car, or get his own place to live. It is only when an existential crisis hits us out of nowhere, as we cross a certain threshold in our age, do we begin to realize, that we indeed have become this person (whatever maybe the official business title) that we once vaguely defined as our goal in our childhood, and that howsoever much privileged a position it is, it doesn’t necessarily provide contentment or happiness.

© The Flowers of Art

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The Pathway

 

Gravel and stones I do collect
To lay a path of my own
For I am not amongst the fortunate ones for whom it is laid already by God.

For having ambitions that could shake up the heavens
How could I but even blame the immortal and eternal one?
For impossible it is for anyone to lay a path down for a poet.

Through failures and hardships I will carve a path of own
And while I am at it, a castle as well out of chalices, smoke and storms.
Whoever has ever accompanied artists on their journey to find some depth, a meaning in their life or home?
Leave it I will to some dreamer from the future to unravel me,
As I now like a madman am exploring the depths of Bolaño and Van Gogh.

© The Flowers of Art

The Game of Life

 

Stand tall, boy! Stand firm!
Take on the rain, and the sun.
Change in the weather is inevitable.
Learn to persist and persevere little one.

Lost in dreams and worried about a gazillion things,
Where are you off to, and why away from everything do you run?
Learn my little one, to endure and take your steps gently,
For the game of life has only just begun.

© The Flowers of Art

The Rotten Lotus

 

Downtown was bursting with festivities, alit with a multitude of brilliant colours. By the time I returned from my evening walk, the sky was a shade of purple I hadn’t seen before. I passed by restaurants and bars and people on the street, like a ghost invisible to all. I saw through the windows people having awkward conversations with their dates, youngsters drinking and teasing each other with bawdy jokes, old couples walking hand in hand silently, and what a sight it was! For a brief moment I thought I witnessed utopia.

But then around the corner, I saw a poor man, shivering, lying on the footpath, an old man playing the guitar in the freezing cold and a madman lifting finger toward the heavens cursing God. And all of a sudden, a desire to drink the poison of sadness of the entire world came over me; to take upon myself, the burden of strangers, friends and foes alike. But when has ever a single man saved the world from its misery? I felt Kafka tap on my shoulder and smile, it was enough for me to know that he understood me.

© The Flowers of Art

Proud Winter

 

With malignancy gleaming in the eyes
Roared a proud and dreadful winter, “O gleeful earth!
To smile facing a calamity is but very unwise
Tremble in fear for I shall drink away all your mirth!”

And so it happened as he declared
All the plants were winter-dead
Stepping out of the house in the snowstorm
Was a feat of daring, no one dared.

Smashing and throttling all life-forms that came in the way
Smirked cruelly the freezing winds white.
All bent down before the unmitigated might of winter
But a barren plant laden with red berries defied.

© The Flowers of Art

 

Ten Thousand Strong

 

The rains pelted down on his body,
But the battle throughout the day raged on.
“It is dusk!” announced somebody,
His enemies and he broke apart until dawn.

He slashed down a crop of hundred next morning,
But another hundred arose.
They all came down upon him without a warning,
And began anew their exchange of blows.

He was growing weary of this great war, they call life.
Outnumbered everyday he somehow struggled on.
He had started feeling, he’s not to make it out alive,
Bloody and bruised, that day on the field he finally fell down.

He crawled to take shelter beneath an apple tree.
Seeing his plight, someone in the heavens decided to send her along.
She healed him in the night; stroked his hair gently, taking him in her arms.
New blood ran through his veins and he suddenly felt he was ten thousand strong.

With a force that now knew no bounds he tackled them again next day.
Before evening, at the top of his lungs he was screaming “Is that it old life? Bring on more!”
Now no more was life all war and strife, but a game, or best a play.
Thus ended the raconteur his narration of this age old lore.

© The Flowers of Art