Wall Of Masks

 

The fire ruins its own altar,

with the silence that slits the air.

How can a heart beat in two rhythms(?)

like a prayer, like a curse.

She was my calm

my chaos.

My heaven.

My hunger.

You... 

you’ve seen me crack

and stitch myself in shadows.

Tell me mirror

am I man

or just the ache of a smile(?)

Behind me the masks wait...

The lover.

The liar.

The coward.

The beast.

The child.

The fool.

The saint.

And one - empty 

that does not blink.

Each one a face

I’ve worn.

Each one a name 

I've torn.

The walls are cold

as I stand hugged in its darkness...

Not with love.

Neither hate.

Just silence.

Peaceful.

Terrifying.

You’ve seen me bare.

When even my breath was a lie.

Tell me mirror...

which mask is me?

Before the City Dawns

 (A subaltern dawn song...)

We rise before the rooster cries,

Before the sky begins to blush,

Before the bosses sip their tea,

We sweep the silence with a hush.

The city sleeps in dreams of glass,

We move like whispers through its veins

With a broom, a bucket and barefoot grace,

Erasing footprints made of stains.

The milkman’s cycle hums its tune,

His bell rings a chime for none but us,

The rag-picker sifts through the moon,

While dogs and ghosts make little fuss.

A woman with a cloth-wrapped back

Climbs five flights, water-pot in tow

The taps will dry by eight, she knows,

But now they cough a rusted flow.

Men in uniforms half-worn,

Wait for buses never new

Their shoes still wet from yesterday's dew,

Their hunger hidden, but not through.

A child in gutters draws the sun

With chalk made from a broken brick.

The light comes slow and never warm,

But he believes in morning’s trick.

We are the first breath, not the face,

We paint the dawn, then step aside.

For the city to wake with a polished pride

And forget the hands that kept it dignified.

Unseen, unnoticed, unthanked, we are the painters of the dawn... 

At the End of the Day...

The voice within, a whisper bruised,

Fights the noise the world has used

To carve a man from primal bone

To cage the beast, to leash the lone.

The mind, a mat where wars unfold,

Instincts wild, but nurtured cold.

They tame him not with chains or rods,

But with applause and wooden Gods.

He wears the mask, rehearsed and tight,

Performs by day, forgets by night.

Painted smiles, a jester’s role

Each laugh, a wounded soul.

Temptation hangs like a golden fruit,

But plucked, it tastes of ash and soot.

He dances for a wage, a name,

A line in ledgers, rank and fame.

Rituals rot in daily spin,

A prayer to clocks, a suit for sin.

Validation, the new divine,

Poured like wine to numb decline.

Frustration bubbles, seeks escape,

But lids get screwed in human shape.

No scream escapes the echo’s hold,

The cage is warm, the bars are gold.

A one-way street with silent bends,

From cradle’s cry to coffin ends.

And what shall grace his stone in sleep?

“He lived to please. He died too deep.”

Sipping Tea at a Brothel

He pays.

He leaves.

And she bleeds quietly.

Some come for release,

others for control.

Some come to forget.

Some to remember.

Some to be punished.

Some just come because it’s cheap.

It's sin.

It’s not sin.

It’s survival.

It’s escape.

It’s addiction.

It’s barter.

It's bargain.

It's need.

It’s ritual.

Here, bodies are commodities.

Sold by the hour.

Measured by the weight, age and colour of the skin,

freshness of smile,

limpness of resistance.

It is commercialisation of desire

wrapped in lace,

sold in whispers,

shared in commissions, 

paid in bribes,

cashed in tips.

She lets strangers 

from the corridor of silence 

enter in the dark...

Screeching beds, 

sweat,

blood and tears - at times

between pain, pleasure and numbness... 

He comes. He goes.

But the scent lingers around like emptiness. 

The curtain falls, when the last man zips,

And I lay my teacup after that last sip...

What to Name it

The world, unchanged, just took its turn.

And somewhere, quietly,

as he perched, he learned

that warmth can die,

and still leave light 

the night a child

was orphaned

by night.

My Wor(l)d Walks with Strangers

The book is gone.

Lost or left behind… 

Somewhere, in someone’s hold.

Running fingers across verses 

that once trembled my soul.

Will they read them as I wrote or will they read them as told(?)

There was one poem written without ink

Whoever finds that will never know 

That it holds what I couldn’t hold within.

So, if you see my words wandering here and there

on torn leaves or rehearsed lines, 

know this...

They once belonged to a man

who loved so hard, he forgot to lock the door.

தலைப்பில்லா கவிதைகள்

மெல்லத் திறந்த பக்கங்களில்

மௌனமாக வைக்கப்பட்ட என் நெஞ்சம் இருந்தது…

ஒரு ஒரு வரியும் என் புலம்பல்தான்

ஆனால் யாருக்கும் தெரியாத மொழியில் எழுதப்பட்டிருந்தது.

தலைப்பில்லா சில கவிதைகள்,

அத்தாள்கள் தான் என் தோள்களில் உறங்கிய இரவுகள்…

இப்போது அந்த கவிதைத்திரட்டு என்னிடம் இல்லை.

ஒளிந்திருக்கலாம்,

யாரோ திறந்திருக்கலாம்,

பகிர்ந்திருக்கலாம்... புரியாமல்.

அக்கவிதைகள், ஒரு மனிதனின் உள்ளம் உடைந்த பிம்பங்கள்.

ஒரு பெண்ணின் பெயர் கூட எழுதாத அத்தாள்களை,

இப்போது யார் கைகள் மெதுவாக கிழிக்கிறதோ(?)

மறக்க முடியவில்லை.

ஏனெனில், அவை தொலைந்த என் வரிகள் அல்ல, என் சிதறிய வலிகள்...

என் வாழ்வின் உடைந்த நொடிகள்.

தொலைத்து விட்டேன்.

இன்று நான் எழுதும் ஒவ்வொரு வரிக்கும்

அந்த பிழை ஒரு பிளவாகவே நிற்கிறது.