Departure

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?