failed attempts at poetry on a grey coloured day...

What is the point in singing today-
When songbirds lie dead in your head?
What is the point in dancing today-
When the rain clouds have all fled?

In the little sky between your fingers,
You write prose in stranger tongues-
And in the little blue patch on your palm,
You carry skeletons of love ballads unsung.

Your prose speaks of smiles-
Which gleamed like the torch Prometheus stole,
And your palm tells stories that the leaves left incomplete -
Before they got blown.

As the world is lulled to sleep today-
By the soft song of the newborn wind,
Let us not talk of the days lived-
Long ago in a light year now swept away clean.

For, what is the point in talking today-
When poetry has been long dead?
What is the point in living today-
When all our hearts have bled?

amazed!

i am amazed at myself today...
i managed to fall down again and sprain the right ankle for the umpteenth time.but that is not what amazed me...
this time i didnt cry.
the last time i fractured my toe,i remember having wept a river.
in a queer way,i am proud of myself today...
love makes u feel secure,no doubt, but it also makes you weak.
and being far away from the ones you love,makes you this rock which picks itself up and limps its way through a crowded street without holding onto any hand...
thank god,i think i am growing up.
atlast.

its crazy how we call ourselves independent today..
crazy because people still do what they are told-betraying years of education in an empowering environment,people forget they have a mind.
rubbishing all things we learn,we still love to be governed because we know that the world we live in-in the quietest corners of our heart is just in our heads...
in the real world,there is no holden caulfield really.
he never became independent of the trappings of the printed word bound by dog eared covers.

Update

i saw Hazaron Khwaishen Aisi today and have some major problems with the film!after having heard so many accounts of the Naxalbari movement from my Jethu,i felt the film was inadequate in translating into celluloid the real essence of the movement,and thus didnt quite live upto all the ravings i was subjected to,by my friends here.
guess the domestic realities of the movement for the people here and in Cal are very different-here it was just a small fraction of students in JNU who joined in but in Cal,there were thousands of homes,like mine,which saw their sons come back with cuts on their faces and bruised legs...
as i type this post,the MS Word software is drawing a red line beneath the word 'Naxalbari' and in a strange way,it is disturbing.i live in a house which is built on the land which is believed to have served as a dumping ground for bodies of the people who lost their lives in the movement,my childhood stories talked of how my uncle nearly lost his foot because a bomb happened to burst only a few metres away from him and today when i sit back recalling all this,i am told the word 'Naxalbari' isn't meant to be a word at all just because a group of American peabrains is uneducated enough to have never heard of something which changed the way my city looked...
i know,i am losing it but thank God for Amitav Ghosh and Shadow Lines-my eternal provider of solace!