Now, that I’ve seen eight,
nine, I’m sure, will not be as fine
as they write in those tales.
Tales are just tales, I know,
So, they talk to me, I listen,
and nod, then I do what I want.
I’ve seen when I wait long enough
their talks do end and they leave.
Sometimes I look at them, look not listen,
and think of all I’ll do after the talk ends.
Then I wait, and wait some more, and they leave.
I am made to sit in a corner, punished, grounded.
So I wait, and wait, and they leave.
Then I play, alone, in my corner, book in my hand.
I’m safe, punished, and alone, while
they think I’m reading as ordered.
It's difficult to be what you are destined to be,
more difficult to know what you are destined to be,
and then to live, not reaching there, ever.
Nothing comes for free.
The world takes the fee of life.
Sometimes it simply condemns you to live your death
as you know you live, but not your destiny.
No David for that Goliath, the world
not for long, not for ever.
You live compromises, one after the other.
You give some and then, some more.
My sons, they tell me
that a part of my destiny will be fulfilled through them.
I smile and mask my fear.
Just think of the day they know their father, the midget,
the coward, and then, hate him
for not being
what he was destined to be.
(Rajnish Mishra is a poet, writer, translator and blogger born and brought up in Varanasi, India and now in exile from his city. His work originates at the point of intersection between his psyche and his city. He edits PPP Ezine.)
The Beautiful Space-