Who am i Before i was born What was i doing In the mysteries of the unknown Do i have a name Where do i call my home Did i say goodbye Before i was gave birth by my mom. Why did i chose my parents. Who carried me first, Who cleaned me up, Who wiped my first tears Who were my first friend Why do i have to be in haste Why do i have to die Where are you taking me to Am i going home ?
If a blind man can not see the sun Does not mean the sun does not exist Who is to tell me the enigma of Life
There will certainly be A great many of them Far readier than I’ll ever be O blessed unborn one Yet endowed with inexistence To whom mercy shall slip from And re-emerge in its awakening Beings past or below my shrinking age A great many among them Whom I once did or shan’t collide Beyond the captured scope of mutual days To relate to you what high events Unrolled before our common eyes Folks granted with the privilege Promoted to the status of witnesses Historians, athletes and prophets By themselves and their narratives I let them unroll their good accounts Forfeit their tales of what must be bound To mould your unsuspecting Circumspect mind and Save you from sensing Delicately sensing Voices that once knew more Than in haste speak Than with haste carry Daringly could the silence hear Untangle the mumbling tango Of the vociferous crystal parade My darling unborn one The tortuous path out of the forgings Of reason almighty, the ventricular beast Played and echoed in loops and on repeat No, you shan’t feast on their hymns Yours is meant for the engineering of belief In something further, of glory, Far more, furthermore, Something extraordinary Than the days of days And the knowns of knowns And to lodge firmly out of the stillness That’s woven in the heart of your chanting storm And in the precipice of the forecast May you never come to designate But the space between the notes So that when it comes not to ever pass We shall rejoice in the untold absence That binds us as if pierced by an arrow While we ask about the bow
the yearling roasted on the spit its drippings crackled the fire huddled in a smoky closed space family with a neighbour, or two bags packed, shoes on, ready to go
the meat carefully carved its skeleton intact, unbroken with endives rolled in flatbread unleavened as we had no time meal's remains destroyed in the fire
we're ready to leave at any moment from where we're born and always lived to a place known only from ancient tales outside, shrieks and wails, of horror and utter terror inside, goosebumped, hair standing, we waited, in silence
Three Scottish hags brew up a political storm in a...cauldron.
Inspired by Suri Ben N who got me overthinking about brevity, Shakespeare, alternative storylines, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, and the existential milieu in general.
‘We do on stage things that are supposed to happen off. Which is a kind of integrity, if you look on every exit as being an entrance somewhere else.’ - Tom Stoppard, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead