Symphony
In
A
Solitary
Home
On a
Quiet
Street,
The
Rain-drops
Sliding
Off the
Surviving
Tree-tops
And
Cascading
down
In a
regular fall
On the
concrete,
Produce
a
Rhythmic
Pattern,
And
Musical
sound
That
In-itself
Is
A
Harmony
Unique,
For
The
Ears
Of the
Elderly
Figure,
Sitting
Daily
As a
statue,
For
Hours
together
Near
the
Pricey
phone
---A
gift from USA---
That
hardly
Rings.
Do
I wake or sleep?
Was it
a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is
that music:—Do I wake or sleep?
That is
a question posed by Keats
In his
inimitable Ode to a Nightingale.
Between
a vision and a waking dream,
Lies a
sphere unique processed by the brain;
An
enchanting area full of melodies,
Some
heard; some, un-heard.
The
sole self roams these territories
Bound by
time-space, yet un-bound.
Between
waking up and dream,
The
elusive state of being
Asleep
and awake,
The
intermediate zone/place
Between
physical and meta-physical,
Real
and fancy,
Determined
and non-determined,
By
heavy material constraints,
The
creative mind navigates the
Labyrinth
of the Unseen
And
finally discovers the poetic
In the
everyday, the Seen.
Portrait
of a young cyborg
Eyes
sparkle like beams of light
In a
shaved skull elongated and deep
Marked
with new-age hieroglyphics;
Features
android,
Intelligence
enhanced by smart technology;
Still,
the vestigial heart remains humanoid,
Despite
metallic covering, and it remains
Eager
for a dialogue with human species!
Digitalized,
Maximized,
Optimized,
Futuristic,
A
cyborg, mix of machine and early species,
Once
called Homo sapiens,
Still
retains some old
Human
memories,
Desiring
for a contact with
Remnants
of surviving humanity
On a
degraded planet in the year 2040.
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