Les plus lus ▸
Balachandran V
Turning it inward, the first thing I noticed
Was the paleness of the Blue.
As I scanned, colours of different hues appeared
A bright saffron Red that excited me,
Greens, strange, I always felt erotic
Browns of barren lands and then
The White of the snow-capped hills.
I shook the Glass and Viola'! it turned
To a Kalaiedoscope.
Sparklers and bangle pieces
Tinted glass and tiny beads - I shake -
And marvel at the myriad of love.
Love, in its infinite patterns, Love
That I knew, and that I didn't
Each design, falling into place
So different from the other, so unique!
I see patterns on the walls.
I see them on the floor.
I see them on the ceiling.
I see them on the door.
I don't know why i see these things,
Sometimes they're really scary.
These patterns try to tell me things,
Some things can be quite merry.
I've seen these patterns for a while now,
The doctor said it was fine.
They show me how to write a poem,
But i still don't know how to rhyme.
I who cut patterns,
As every soul must do,
Fret myself with longing
For themes that are new.
All these fashions
Were moulded years gone by,
And, like the mask of politics,
Are coloured with a lie.
Even the treasured love motif,
This thing of you and me,
It must so carefully be cut
To keep us bound, yet free.
And death, the sombre casket
Of centuries of song,
And war, and rivalries and creeds,
These we have used too long.