Friday, December 30, 2011

Old and New (2008)

In the days of swords and glory victory was an achievement.
Wearing your green olive branch you stood on the podium,
Victory was as easy and singular. The peasant ploughed his fields, 
The miner mined, the warrior fought and the lover loved. It was all of one
And one of all. Either just or unjust, fair or unfair-
An easy, dual affair. Today its a matter of grey. The peasant
Ploughs and the miner mines; the warrior fights and the lover loves.
The rough hands never taste the fruits, the shovel knows
Not its purpose, neither does the warrior know his battle cause 
Or the lovers their identity. But the barren harvest continues, 
The senseless mining- relentless. Wars fought between 
Unknown foes and without reason while the Lovers love but 
The purpose they know not, the sacrifices they know not. Victory
Is but a plurality now, based not on toil but on reasons unrelated and intricate.
Simplicity in itself isn't as simple and life is a negation if it stands alone. Maybe,
The same peasants, warriors and lovers of old felt the same plurality and spake
The same thoughts. In a vicious circle identity lost its face and meaning lost
Its light from when they were born. Generations awoke to a degraded,
Derelict form of these and thus deemed them as mere ideals. As we died and
The new us lived, these meanings transformed into convenience, 
The children of tomorrow saw distorted images of what was once a sculpture.
The me changed to I and the we became us, the you became yourself
And identities thus lost. Now I the peasant plough my scorched fields, I 
The miner mine for a rich breed, I the warrior die for a selfish cause and 
I the lover love my impending loss. Oh how else will my children reap and mine
And fight and love? How else will they lose if the cause they know not? What will
They love if virtues they know not!! Will 'the man perpetual' evolve into a 
Parasite that thinks and thinks only when it needs and feeds?? Where do we lie
And how do we exist? How does my me exist and how my love do you?? You will
Find the answer my unborn child but when I rot in my grave and you look at it
With a detached and retrospective gaze. A mere ideal put in a glass case.

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