Sunday, August 8, 2010

The Poem - Generations old!

There was a first
and they were his words.
The other listened
patiently, sometimes
slept with eyes wide open.
In between punctuations,
gargles of alcohol,
a few nature's calls
and some verses blank,
The other would be seated,
seats below,
a meter below the meter
An old saying ran in the village
"Distance from the first always safer"

The first would recite,
The other would clap,
release a few audible excites.
Scratch his head,
Sometimes the groin,
Looks at the sun
when he came - was a red ball,
now - a bright ball,
when he will leave - in the sky a different ball.

His father had done the same,
So had the father's father.
Generations of practice,
Taught the survival in the game.
His son -
young and naive.
In the distance squatted,
played five on five.
Bought along to observe,
In years will have to learn,
the family's morsel of bread,
Safe keep the land,
and all other fears that they dread!

The first would rise,
the other followed.
The first sighed,
the other sheepishly smiled.
The first burped,
the other gulped.
The first moved away,
Two hands on two men,
The alcohol must have been strong,
The other picks up his child,
Sleeping on the grass,
mud on his hide,
worms sleeping by his side.

On the way back, his questions galore -
"Baba - what did you hear today?"
The other would cradle him closer
"Poetry, my son, everyday!"
"Was I there in it?"
another question,
another silence from the other.
Many pauses later,
"No, my son, not you nor grand pa or me was in it!"

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