Sharada

The eyes

The eyes of that man
Look so dreadful

Like the fear under the shadow
Of an evaporating planet
Witnessing it sublimate
In to the eternity
And stare at it in utter disbelief?

Why, why the eyes
Of that man
Look so dreadful?

Like the shadow of pleasure
Of the sense of touch fighting
The austere mind
And the impulse of pleasure

Like the ambrosia
In an earthen pot
With a hole in the bottom
Connecting the carved stream
Of the within and
The raw block outside

The pleasure cries
The wail of loss
And leaps out
From the vertex
Of the other world
And loses its shadow

Why then
Those eyes
Look at the shadow
That brought unto itself
The agony of losing the object
And the shadow?

Replete with awkwardness
Of a woman menstruated
Unaware in a crowded mall

Apprehensive like the Murderer
Standing in a court hall awaiting
The sentence of being hanged


Grieving like the mirror
In front of an ugly soul

Why, why the eyes
Of that man look
Like sores filled with pus,
Stretching from the tip
Of the nose to the ear

Whither doll, Whither light?
Neither open nor closed
Neither twitched nor shrunk
Neither speaks nor smiles

But
Like the time chasing
A star in the space
Like those suffered lots
Reap the fruits of its own sin
But have no remorse.

Like the eunuch armoured to kill
Meek and helpless
At the banks of the Euphrates

Why, why the eyes
Of that man
Look so dreadful?

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