Monday, July 2, 2012


This Sunday,
My fingers are immobile,
My limbs are heavy,
My torso is pulled down by my limbs,
My neck is infirm,
And in the head that overlies this neck,
Dumbness prevails.

Lumbering with dumbness,
Dumb with redundancy,
Redundant with emotions,
Emotional without reason,
And there the stream ends,
The stream of my scourge,
The scourge yet unnamed.

Sundays are endless,
So are memories-
That capsize my actions today,
Memories of Sundays,
Of endless laughter,
Of inexhaustible cuddles,
Of the comfort of idleness,
Of protracted play,
Of industrious revisions,
For senseless tests.

Memories of Sundays,
Of long walks,
Of enchanting dinners,
Of interminable phone calls,
And of people,
Who enlivened my Sundays

Today is one,
A Sunday of memories,
Of those on the brink of forgetting those Sundays,
And memories of those ,
Who by virtue of magnanimity or regard,
Or memories,
Created another memory today.


  1. I think your poetry is a response to something. Something that constrains your freedom of thoughts and dreams. What is it? Your own surroundings? Your own life? Is Life Good still? :)

  2. I am living my dream wanderer. But it's true that I am not dreaming more. Freedom is never enough. It can never be enough in anything less than a monopoly. I am coming to terms with my fetters. Your judgment was close. Thank you very much for the concern. And yes, life's still good.