From The Streets of Bihar
The streets of Bihar
Are the face of an abstract painting,
Sad.
The colors of history,
It seems,
Someone has washed away.
Or scrapped with fingernails.
A river has changed its color,
And the sky here is not blue
Anymore.
Tired sky and forgotten rivers.
The morning still basks
In an orange glow
Of a lazy suburban Sun
That fades
In the echoes of night,
Muffled screams.
The day is lost
Pretending deaf.
Fantasy poetry of
Unseen revolutions
Have often knocked
The doors of destiny,
In sweaty envelopes,
To be rewritten in blood…
But eyes have failed
To tell impoverished, meager heroes
From shameless, naked demons.
Reality, sadly,
Is a little gray,
Half lie.
I have often seen
A volcano
Walking on the streets,
Threatening to erupt
On evenings of nothingness.
Somehow,
It never does,
As the radio continues
To ramble shamelessly.
Streets of Bihar still believe
In prayers
With eyes closed.
And dream
Ignorant of a fear
That sits all night
By the bedside.
Streets of Bihar
Have lost their feet
In the race.
They are forgotten leaves
Of autumn.
They are the eyes
Of a frightened child
Who is learning to
Drag his feet
To unwelcome tomorrows.
They just stare.
Mute,
Like the volcano
That has remained quiet.
(c) Ankur Srivastava
