It was a hundred and eight years ago
That he died, my Supreme Grand Father.
But he was a freak
He was a show-piece, case
Special doctors descended on him
One said, `it is a heart death,
Body's hot, current' flow's on'
But it didn't last
Body was burnt to dust
But the specialists didn't give up
They said,`it's a body death,
But he lives'
They conferred, they debated,
Then they presented
A dressed up decorated vegetable
They prescribed a set of motions
For us to pretend before him
They told us some psycho tips
That will bring back the dull drab
vegetable
To some sort of life.
We are at it still.
You must admire our stubbornness.
We carry on the daily drill
In this stupid mausoleum
It doesn't have a corpse even,
But some miscast metals, ill shaped stones,
And some silly shadows
That has some pathetic maudlin links
With that whipped up dead corpse.
Pity us, pity us, we are at this game
A thousand of us have left
All our valuable works
To play this morbid game
Thousand thousands more
Give vital parts of our lives
For this shadow-play.
I cannot let go now.
I am hooked, I am done with,
There is a fatal charm
In this diabolical dead man
Not him, his dead body's shadow does that.
Imagination soars, dreams throw up, joy abounds.
Devil perhaps knows how it happens,
How a long dead repulsive
Half-naked, rustic, unkempt, stale vegetable
Drags us all, bright and beautiful
To his place, the doomsworld.
10.15 a.m.
16 March 1995
Temple Siddha peeth
Holy Hyd'bad
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