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A Valley Of No Flowers

Pranab k c
08/2011

The valley never gets free from its glory
grey its wide openness never hides death
from its extreme interior of visibility
and metaphorical existence

My ancestors once played their flute to salute the peak
high so high the stiff never kept their feet anymore
only light they seen as we the worthless parasites
yet find flickering truth to burst ourselves with pride

The valley never ends its utterly paradox to greet again
when mermaids hallucinating watery surface to swim
a light of deeming dusk playing a gallop to hold our reign
mighty strength the dancing horses no more on the ground

a beautiful paranoia with its suddenness
calls the trip to hooting
a burning sensation of utmost deviation
from narrow to nut
from depth to expansion
the whole civilization captivating its highness

the death must not the other side of life
must not the romantic moontraker
simply gazetting the orientalism of artistic fatigue
its a real charm of diminishing the height of any peak
the valley enjoys everywhere with the grey

we yet just waiting
to hide ourselves forever the sanctity of humanness
only a subtle obsession of eradicating solitude
flows silently with no sound morbidity
and etheral punctuation repeatedly backbites our calm footsteps
not to reach there, not to grip the tricks
the valley always hankering
to mould our flesh snatching from our soul

poem by Pranab K. Chakraborty
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