She is a light in this eyeless world,
A garment on this torn civilization,
A fallen leaf from that human right,
A broken reality under that bridge,
Or, a profitless story you avoid, or, find
On every sunken sideway.
To download her own little smile,
Or, to publish an aromatic season
On the petals of life and honey,
She is pale and fail from every dawn,
Baked by every shouting society.
Always sobbing with her sibling sorrow,
Always begging to battle for her bale belly.
When she was a baby,
Life turned off her joy.
Trapped between life’s minus and minus,
Finally, she stood on roads, yes,
And, she begged for a “ Bread ” or a “ Tea. ”
Your natural ” GET LOST ” ripples
In the illiterate-innocence of her capital heart,
When it is full of air, long explosions and drops
Sunshine and Moon are always same for her,
They always come and go without investigating.
Still, she wakes up for a green day, a bonsai day,
To transform her infinite-hunger, living-form,
And her ancient-gloom into blossoming smiles . . .
Oh, smiles may visit her once in a year,
Haves have those hundreds a day.
But not the case with chained-misery,
Because, they are born together,
From the same unlucky and poor womb.
How many faces has she won ? Or recorded her ?
Or how many coins has she earned ?
Or minted for her and the have-nots and the vulnerable ?
“ Very sorry,
I am politically too busy to tour the world,
(To get political, economic
And warring orange-monkeys’ support)
And to post modish selfies with other suit-wearing-
Terrorists like me, fascist-leeches,
(T)ruthless-venoms, blindest-weapons, empty-publicity etc . . .
I really don’t have time and tune to domesticate
The opposition and minorities
And this and that and the subcontinent.
My people are born to suffer, burn, forget and die ” :
The Prime-(Tea)-Minister declares like a tyrant
Of a nuclear-tea-shop called India
And prepares another strong night-tea
For the white days of the withering people !
In sooth, nothing left to lift the child,
At least to a 5 kgs of sustainable long laughter,
From a weary loss and file of every intolerant day.
When she fruitfully interpreted that lesson,
“ Pauper, the poverty people,
Can’t choose cash, cakes,
Meadowlands, fearless-rest, technology and PPP,
Then, she was already the remote control
Yet, hope knows that she too has dreams . . .
And in her dreams like a Disney princess she is.
But while she watches her on the mirror of Life,
Ah, that always implodes like a Touch-me-not
Like a universally neglected (t)ear !
Sanju Clement is a Promethean—poet—painter who hails from Kerala (India), land of gods, devils and monsoon too . . His poetic and artistic invention is that he starts from the zonal heights of the light of Metaphorical Surrealism but he will land on the realistic feet of Metaphorical Realism, which truthfully mirror in almost all of his poems and paintings . . He is compiling his books of poesy on Love (“2020 Drizzling Green Poems & A Melody of Melancholy”) and Ultra-Hyper Political/Protest Poems (“101 Promethean Assumptions”) themes.