The poet as a mad man

I means the story of my life,Which you do not know.”“What do you know about me,My life and times down the ages,What do you about? , ”Said she Burquawalli,With a pity into the eyes of hers.Burquawalli, what is it that you are putting to words?“You do not know what it has happened to me,How have…

And to pass away so.There is nothing in meAs that to make me immortal.I am a common manLiving commonly.

Taking the rugged men far,The nomadic tribesLiving under tents.

Taking a few puffs,The cigarette glowing red,The ashes shaken into the ash-trayOn the table,Poems coming to.The cigarette shorteningTo a stump, a stubTo be thrown outAnd after that the child’s trystWith smokingTo begin withBut the health hazardsLater to confront the poet.

Grey-hairedHanumansJumping, hanging byThe branches,Alighting,Striding alongThe road,Pausing by the housesTo ask forFood peculiarly,For loaves of bread,Bananas,Cucumbers,Biscuits,Water,Hanumans,Black-mouthed,Grey-hairedHanumans.Sitting byThe roadside,Asking forFoodWith a troupe,Father,Mother,Son and daughter,One near the hut,Another atop it,Another by the treeHanging onto,Eating the leavesAnd going byOne by oneHanuman,Black-mouthedHanumans.

Standing underneathLooking her.She smiling from the railway fly over,Bidding ta-ta, bye-bye from thereWith the hands waving at and greeting me below.