I've got the evening off, I'm thinking about making a call,
Apologize, you know, pay the landlady the rent,
Apologize again to the woman I thought I loved but didn't,
Look at myself in the mirror, shave, and try not to drink.

I've got the evening off, I'll write a letter, an e-mail,
Tell her that I miss her and want her to come over,
Pay the bills, walk back to the park and breathe,
Look at my reflection in the windows of tall buildings, and try not to shrink.

I've got the evening off, I have the city's company,
I'll call her before I sleep again, I have to, I say
To those who listen, and there aren't many here,
I'll drink to the last drop, but I won't break down.

War has no meaning, I am often told,
By men who haven't fought them.

Those who have fought are the silent ones,
They rarely recount the horrors of violence,
The existential crises, and the exhaustion.

War is not purification, it is a subjugation of the notes of life
That seem to tie humanity together.
I have seen the weight of my burden, the mortar shells haunt me still,
My service pistol lies under my pillow every night, because habits die hard.

There isn't much sympathy, nobody understands the implication of duty in combat,
My medals are just silent pieces of shrapnel that seem to bleed with the souls
Of those men I could not bring back.
Where is the enemy, I wonder, who was he, the shooter the dark,
Or the suicide bomber, the ******? I wonder if he feels the same
As I do, duty comes with a weight that bears down on my spine,
And bends my spirit.

The world ages in a solstice, the dreams of a million eyes,
Lie like blades of grass, while the two of us sit at the edge,
Watching an endless sunset and kissing mortality,
And all that remains is an evening burned away in bliss.

Disease is narrowing the definition of life,
Happiness is so sweet that you can drink it.

I'm not sure about what I want to tell you now that I have you,
I'm not sure if you existed in my head or are a dream come from within.

The sounds of you breathing remind me of my head and I hope,
That all this is real.

I've learned so many things from solitude,
That counting them s like counting the autumn leaves,
And what are autumn leaves save for stars in the daylight?

I've learned that the mind is fertile,
That thoughts bear fruit like Springtime,
I've learned from solitude a lesson in peace,
that being lonely is not always the same
as being alone.

I've learned from solitude the nature of pain from separation,
That there is nothing that can leave my heart
except my blood, and there is nothing that constricts my throat
The way your memories do.

I've learned that compassion is human, it lies curled in a corner
Till Sunlight and warmth raise it from its coma
and determination aid its walk towards the light.

I've learned so many things from solitude,
That all that remains is its blanketing comfort,
and a lifetime of tranquility.

I'm reading old letters, yellowed with age,
The voice that speaks to me as I read is weathered,
Aged, and yet in clear syllables tells me,
All about life 70 years ago, when the world
And her people were at war with themselves.

Through the voices I heard while reading,
I glimpsed the chains that tied
My country's people in their skins, and engulfed
Their minds in suffering and shame.
Curious thing this epidermal tinge that a shade too dark, shackles a man
Down to the dust, robs him of pride
And breaks the spine of unborn children.

My grandfather's letters are old, dying sheets of paper,
His memories are moving clouds of silken mist,
Which swirl and glide as he remembers
The days of his youth, carrying a satchel to school,
Because his dark skin, the condition of his people,
Their status as the Subjects of a King they did not know,
Forbade him from walking in boots and a better school.

The moonlight shines through the window,
70 years have passed, and a shackled spirit now roams free
Broken chains lie in the dust and words exist in history books,
But my grandfather describes freedom best.

Long meanders the line that divided us
While we lived, rugged is the knife that severed
What was a quiet bond between two particles
Of stardust.

From my reserved cloud I can see
The domes on the temples I have never visited,
The ghat that runs by the holy rivulet is solitary,
The mists of human endeavour do not blanket
Those flagstones in warmth or comfort,
All that remains is algae sprawled on the steps
Of the ghat where silence is the spirit
The light and the guide.

Two particles of stardust collide in an instant
In the fluidity of Space time, and all that remains
Is a whisper in history
That once existed two people, separate,
Though begotten of the same dust as the Stars,
Who were united in a flash of light,
And an eternity of peace.

I can hear the nurses over the din
That is my blood in my ears,
Coursing through these veins as if on fire.

I can hear them say "He's struck dumb,
Poor man, gave the boys all he had,
All that's left, of course, is a wordless bag of bones,
And broken heart".

I can hear them frivolously care for the others I cannot see,
Whose names, are to me, little anchors that weigh me
To reality, like a nail in the ground holds a kite down
To keep it from breaking free.

I am silent, struck dumb

Why can't the thoughts that swirl in my mind like mist
Materialize into words and sentences so that a living eye can read them,
So that a living ear can hear them, as they flow from my mouth
In little indeterminate streams,
That can remind me that the world exists beyond what I have seen.