A great
oblivion of what lies yonder
Yet driven
by such an indifference,
Thou made
it, thy epithet-less innocence--
What
followed were learning,
Leave aside
those tiny pains taken,
For thou think thou can see how thou err as well.
Then the
second one,
No more the
security of such innocence,
Yet there
the same indifference,
Lesser
oblivion yet to the churning chase of now--
Running
after, say, fleeting pleasures
Yet not
having the leisure to have one at a time.
Thy
ambivalence is such an abysmal vortex,
Thou art
sick, dear.
The first
for a genuine freedom,
As per her,
dear mother, notion,
The
pain-wrought notion,
Even here,
at the remote hamlet,
With howling
pines serenity,
Just a ledge
in exile,
Yet vibrant
with sentient human's ambivalence,
Like
"What they're up to? Do we lag behind them?"
Thou seem to
stumble on it, now,
The true
shape of her notion,
When thou
hath lost it already--
Amid the
jumble of such life:
Cacophony
and pre-empting and such running after;
Thou,
despite being sort of cast about, art part of it.
And, so
strangely, thou prepare for the third.
Oh, how
ill-fated thou art, dear.
I wish if I
were a magpie rather than being thee.
Sorry!
That's thy life--
Leaving or
willing to leave but where?
Is such
really a sign of an inner revolution?
