Clad in a quilt, I fill my ashtray with cigarette stubs
before the sun wipes gluey darkness off the sky.
As the time to jog around the Padma riverside walks comes,
I caper and watch fishermen fishing with nets in the river,
amateurs waiting with fishing rods, creels lying beside them.
I see them surely gratified unlike me,
and their euphoria relates to what's found very spry
at the outskirts of the city where the river flows on course
ignoring ba*tards' philanthropy and strange things
happening almost around every corner in the city.
Nasty rogues look on me as just sort of dead drunk,
(one chap says - Your life's all froth and no beer!)
but what the hell do they think they are!
Yeats said things fall apart,
but I say they just sort of spin as in a whirlpool.
Grotty screechers make things spin around me.
Years back counting stars for hours on end,
I thought of myself
as one ‘out of place anywhere, at home nowhere'
and of the steps I should climb in the days to come.
I find meaninglessness mounting everywhere,
and it runs down my throat with every mouthfull like lead.
Yet never do I stop searching for meaning in the sea
of meaninglessness like a scuba-diver.
All that counts is to love and be loved in return. I am sad,
never insane to hate myself for loving life
or for not loving it much either.
Oh, f#$@ing me! I scream -
‘Things ain't gonna sort of stop dead in their track'
and never doubt of my status as your busy fool next door.
I rake coal-heated ashes to bring forth the ferocity of fire
to get myself burnt straight off to be pure as gold.
What shall I do with trials and tribulations of life?
How long shall I dig my heart like a wild fox?
I toss and turn on bed fighting nightmares.