For B. and others
The PC’s cursor is quite enigmatic
As it gives birth to the words
That connect me to a distant memory.
It is nostalgia, in its purest, unadulterated form.
I must confess: I was trembling due to excitement
That you have recognized me:
The Occultist, the Philosopher
The Historian, a soothsayer of some sort.
I have no cards or runes or crystal ball
to read now; but you have stayed.
It was you who brought
The visions to me: eerie, exciting, melancholic.
You say, you went in a journey –
A painful and a difficult one.
The road was rough and dusty, you say
And the cliffs are steep and its rocks are sharp.
You told me, you had cuts and scrapes
But you fought, and you climbed
and walked and run and hitched.
Until you find a little time to rest.
I can feel your soul aching
And it roars, like the waves of the sea
As it rush upon the shore,
Taking away sand, pebbles, shells, and sometimes, trash.
I can feel your wounded, swollen heart
It burns, like the sun
scorching the lichens and grass
and even the trees – drying them all.
I can hear the tears rushing
And it sounded like a dozen falls.
But still, you can manage to smile
Like the cold moon, in the middle of starless night.
You seem to be so tired,
So aching tired
But you can’t stop walking
and running and climbing.
For you are in a search –
Looking for elixirs and rare potions
and hidden manna and secret books
with letters that can dance, sing and speak…
As I have gathered all the courage to reply
I just said: “You know, you are such an irony of sort.”
“A mystery that my crystal ball or runes or Tarot cannot fathom:
“You are weak, yet you are strong; Too fragile, yet unbreakable.”
You became silent
and the visions come again –
eerie, exciting, melancholic.
And you said goodbye, and you’d continue thy journey.
And I say, “God bless! I will follow thee soon…”