The Park at “Spring’s Garden”

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Rusted leaves and brazen tree trunks,

Sooty boar tusks and fur dripping muck.

Cows walk amidst humans here,

Where squirrels too can give away a fright,

To scare off a big fat girl in red shorts,

To gather up her clothes and scream and run.

Then suddenly an old kite hunts down a lazy dove,

Relishes in with a cannibal smugness,

Its new prey’s flesh, while the rest of its flock,

Watches and flaps from afar, too dazed to act.

Then nearby, a girl with punk-style headphones,

Stamps her feet to the earth,

Puffing out a miniature sphere of dirt.

When I see her extracting a little red camera,

I figure, maybe, she’s an amateur photographer,

And she missed the most spectacular shot.

A kite tearing  out the entrails of that innocent dove.

I smile a little, wanting it badly to tell her:

Next time, leave your music at home or get a wireless.

More distractions for me. More people I see.

Here and there, somewhere into the deeper woods,

Where it’s too dark for the sunshine to peep thro’,

Show-off lovers fake their rendezvous,

Sometimes, holding, sometimes leaving hands.

Sometimes holding shiny, pricey techie baubles,

Tattooed with a half-eaten apple, which can’t even be eaten.

Faking the love, faking the passions, even their kisses,

Which is nothing but a pseudo status symbol,

Of some non-existent phase they think they’ve crossed.

I wonder to myself, these twosomes, threesomes,

Handsome people. How can they even for once think,

Turning a back to the world means the world won’t see you?

Well, it’s their problem, I tell myself, not mine!

Under the cover of the dry, barren trees’ shade,

Joggers, in their suits and tracks, slog around,

Hoping to water the dry, dry grass,

With their drops of sweat that fell on the ground.

The rusted leaves and the brazen tree trunks,

Remain standing, like they have, all along.

With no one to water them,

No one to sweep the leaves to a grave for once.

Parched in the want to be remembered and restored,

The old park stands firm in its wait.

Unlike the red humane benches of concrete,

Lives of the wooden trees can’t crumble away.

Maybe there’s another reason for this:

They’re green. Not red.

Yet.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

And I too cannot sympathize.

I am  as well dressed all in red. Inside and out.

So I just leave. The Spring’s Garden,

Like a winter’s desert, still gasping for a tempest.

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PEACE IS TO SPIRIT AS CHAOS IS TO MIND

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What is the Dove? But a meek, unfortunate creature,
It is but a prey at the powerful hands of Man…
What can it possibly teach our civilization, the mightiest of all?
It can’t teach anything, not until we first learn to be uncivilized of all.

Man is civilized, and yet brothers fight like bulls,
Run for the waving, red flag of power, but forget they become colorblind.
As mighty monuments of hopes of passed eons get razed to ash,
Man has terrorized the Dove to silence, as if God’s only creation was Man.

Leaders promote war, destruction, and hatred, and then they apologize
And yet, they wear Doves on clean white, the day, they laugh at behind.
Sync anthems written by brothers who have a way with words to guise,
As in their heart they know, peace for Mankind will never actualize.

But I say, we can, but not until, we go back to the old ways, and relearn,
How we used to be uncivilized. And from then, civilization will flow once again,
Unhindered, by wasteful symbolic culture and fake history, that would crumble anytime,
Free from the falsehood of liberties taken by our ancestors to buy their way into our future.

A world free from the fables of wandering spirits,
And the walking undead, and the supernatural.
A world where practicality will enlighten Man’s mind,
And where the colour of blood will flow alike.

Where we’ll make our own mistakes. Walk down our own road to perfection,
Follow not, the path of so-called great men and live on preset norms from dawn.
Not copy down quotes from speeches, or best-selling books, that aren’t ours.
Where we’d create our own fate, not follow the stout man who counts stars.

Eat not, from just the hearths at our homes, but also from that Garden of Eden,
Let us see if that legend is true. If yes, we bear the same curse as Eve and Adam.
What are we after all? Just human, flesh and blood and the spirit within.
That starves from the lack of knowledge, fed by fear of history. We need to set it free.

So, let us not speak of war and peace, but of the story of evil’s dominion over good.
Speak not of the Dove and the Predator, but the allegory of serenity destroyed by force.
Let us not speak of the civilized bulls, but of untamed, uncivilized human instincts,
The cravings of the soul that’s been subdued for ages, and let its power destroy it all.

From that rubble will Man rise again. A sun above an abyss, lighting up the depths of darkness.
Man will see the pristine green of the valleys, the unconquered peaks, for the first time in history.
Seeing that happy smile, on his neighbor’s face, Man will never feel the need to terrorize him again.
The chaos of the dark world will pass away forever… The new world will breathe together in peace.