31st
August 2014
#1
Word
A
word moves through pages
changing position every time
we chance upon it. It changes
meaning every time we put our
finger on it. Just like a single
chord which has no meaning
unless we know what was played
before and what we are waiting for.
The word slipped out of the book,
it chose a tongue, a pair of lips
and fell into the sadness of our lives.
The
word moved through the streets,
gathering dust and kept on moving.
Those who chose a doorstep, waited
for an infinite, died a natural death,
a death followed by the mourning of the usual,
professors weeping for a dead sparrow,
the last of its kind. Slowing down is a crime,
so the word moves on through the roads,
honking taxis and the pedestrian madness.
Our word moves through cities,
heavy trucks that kill the silence of the night,
changing seats with the driver,
the half-closed eyes of a drunkard who
can’t see beyond his eye lashes,
a fortune teller of the unknown.
The word gained momentum, faster
than the tyres, spinning and rolling,
spilling over in portions of the madness.
The word slept in the tavern,
waiting for a cloth to wipe it from
its dream. A feminine fragrance to
change its idea, another dimension
to this growing randomness of
events and touches which push
it further away from its origin,
into the loneliness of the big blue world.
The word held on to its lover
as the plane flew over our country.
It had already lost its meaning
just like our lives, holding on to
empty seats and empty eyes failing to
question our purpose.
That’s how the word left,
flying away into the darkness of
the unspoken and the unheard.
Many years later, we sit under
a tree, watching its leaves fall,
waiting for our word. Even if it comes
back, we can never be sure.
