He Stole Books!

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