He stole books!
He stole books
As if one steals life out of a blood lashed war-zone
Sneaking past bodies, dead, scattered, life-less, haunting
Something he felt every day, now and then, while
Walking by crowded streets, outside platforms, in bus and trams
For he wished to hold them for a moment, people who he felt slipping
away,
As if sands and he returned every time back to self,
A little confused, some grieves, few happy shades
For pages of books does carry life, and death.
He stole books
As if one steals breathes while standing, walking, passing by
Those motor cars, running away with life, and yet
Sleeping beneath those chimneys which
As if puffing smokes while staring at them as its prey
While one in faith of being alive, breathes and deep
Only to fall, and sooner, unconscious, to creep
A curse one must lay upon, for it being only gateway
To heaven, or hell, one might wonder
While he read in awe, breathing heavy
He stole books
As if one steals a glance, out of people passing by
As they meet for the first time, while walking side by side
While kissing each other, watching them fall asleep,
Having morning coffee after a night of violent love
Or sitting at dinner, amidst edges of themselves falling apart
For a little glance may shower a life, or fear, forever
While one gets stolen out of a little glance through the corner of eyes
As one stares at book after finishing, that says ‘the end’
He stole book or book stole him, he wondered!
He stole books
As if one steals a ray of light out of darkness
Fallen upon a street, full of bright faces, dresses, make-ups and
eye-lashes
And yet unable to lighten up that corner of street, where lays some
eyes
Behind a garbage bin, blind, yet searching for life out of darkness
Darker than rooms, filled with smokes of drugs and lust
For make noise, louder than those filthy cries of those, no more than
leeches
What else lies in the dark, but god these days, for devil has a
flickering new place
He stole books
As if a soldier steals a bullet, from a fellow soldier, dead now
Only to shoot at target, unknown, unseen
For, till one has bullet, one has life, he knows
Yet while another one comes zooming in blowing up his heart
He breathe slow, or fast, but deep, yet losing edges
As one breathes words, while reading towards the end
A soldier dies in silence amidst noise of raining bullets, while war
continues
And so does a reader, dies too yet story continues
He stole books
As if a peasant steals a watch off a dead soldier’s hand
Fallen in the mud, while hiding behind a broken wall
At the edge of his field, torn split by bombs
Waits for another one to fall, die for he will get him this time
Their boot, and jacket too, for he feels cold being alive, they are
dead now
And runs away, leaving behind corpses with open eyes, which watched him
steal
While carrying a note in that stolen jacket, which read ‘we shall meet
again’
As he read, and reread wondering for faces, left suffocating in the
book, finished now
Finished at the same point, from where it started, as he picked another
one.
By: Praveen
Parasar
Date:
27/09/2014
