INTERFACE

In this mystical phase I roam, Like myth of building the Rome, I'm stranded; holed-up; no home. This mystery I struggle to unravel In painless agonies that baffle, Like the hanged man in the chapel Who, always, the "saints" jettison. Every tear has its own reason, As every smile its own season. If then there is time for everything, Like the wall-hand-lettering As seen by those blood-letting, Then I ask: What then is time? Does it have the links that rhyme, Even to the conscience of a crime? And if time is a pass-age, What will be the pass and its age? When and where is its stage? Who has found a good pass Finds a good thing that no one dares trespass, Thus forming a structured atlas: A village of curtailed antecedent, Where an unaccented incident Procreates the horror of an intent. Power s/he obtains for a change, Perhaps to keep flowing in rage Without the knowledge to cage Those would-be contaminables That are seen as inflammables And prone to ferment troubles. Who really leads the tomorrow, Awaited like the flight of a sparrow In this game of god-of-the-arrow? This concern makes me mad mend, Like a mad man chasing the wind, To no avail but a devastated mind. At the end of this game, it sobers That king; queen; pawn; soldiers, Without any gongs and reminders, All in one box shall willingly return. Counting; registering; and in turn, Which no man can shun or fern. What then is our life, I ask? A play of passion mixed with task, Or realities beclouded by a mask?