About poems, bleeding hearts and One Tree Hill

Poets often dwell, perhaps, in the no man's land - torn between the expressed and the inexpressible. Armed with a canvas of a handful of letters and their finite permutations on one hand, and the accumulated shadows, dreams, images, some half-formed, some still-born and some in ruins on the other. The shadowy labyrinths of a restless mind confounded by the shrouds of perception - can it ever be (accurately) mapped on a piece of paper, transformed by the (magical?) powers of expression? I have often groped in darkness - for answers, for enlightenment, for truth... At times it seems a function of time, a function of inspiration, and at times- the unknown, the unknowable(?)...
It is the former that provides me hope, though not the answers...
Riding on the same train of thought but migrating to another man's (very popular) canvas, this monologue is intended to give you a peek into a song that I've often admired for being able to express the sublime.
It is a song called One Tree Hill by U2 from the album The Joshua Tree. Sample these:

The sun so bright it leaves no shadows

Only scars, carved into stone

On the face of earth.

Isn't it ironical how brightness, fame, spotlight can be taxing and burdensome. However, my favourite lines from the same song are:

And in the world a heart of darkness

A fire zone

Where poets speak their heart

Then bleed for it.

Jara sang, his song a weapon

In the hands of love

You know his blood still cries

From the ground

(For complete lyrics go to: http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/u2/onetreehill.html )
To provide some trivia for the curious, songfacts.com (http://www.songfacts.com/detail.php?id=916) gives the following information about the song:

"U2 wrote this about Greg Carroll, a Maori from New Zealand who became an assistant and close friend of Bono after he met the band in 1985 while they were in his country. He was killed a year later when he was hit by a car while running an errand for Bono on Bono's motorcycle. The album The Joshua Tree, as well as this song, are dedicated to Greg Carroll."

"One Tree Hill is the tallest of 5 volcanic islands in Auckland where Greg Carroll took Bono his first night in New Zealand. It is a tourist attraction in Auckland, with a monument at the summit dedicated to John Logan Campbell, one of Auckland's founding fathers. In 1994, the One Tree Hill tree was the victim of a chainsaw attack by a Maori activist which almost ringbarked it. A further attack in 1999 all but finished the job and the life expectancy of the tree was estimated to be only three years. By October 2000, the pine had become unstable and was a danger to the public. After careful study of the condition of the tree, the decision was made to take it down. The felling operation was successfully carried out on October 26 amid much public attention, and the Auckland skyline was changed forever. (thanks, Copper - Auckland, New Zealand)"

"Jara refers to the Chilean folk singer/songwriter Victor Jara. When dictator Pinochet overthrew the government, Jara was tortured by having both his hands cut off and made to play the guitar while he bled to death."
"... for us, from this part of America (Southamerica I mean, not the USA), the Victor Jara's part is quite touching. His death was awful but yet evidence of artistic integrity, honesty and compromise. The man was taken to the Estadio Nacional de Chile, with tousands of students. They were tortured there, but there were people like Jara, who became counselors and guides for the young students there. They suffered, bleed, but they kept believing in freedom, in democracy. Jara himself was thought to be a comunist! The fact is that Jara's death itself is an allegory of comittment to art and social issues. Jara's hands were cut, chopped, and then, thos military pigs threw a guitar at him and told jara to play it. Jara picked up the guitar and used it as a drum with his bleeding arms.... He was shot after that. ("And in the world a heart of darkness A fire zone Where poets speak their heart Then bleed for it Jara sang, his song a weapon In the hands of love You know his blood still cries From the ground") Truly, just like many many others's, Jara's blood "still cries from the ground" - ALE, Necochea, Argentina"

"The lyrics describe the traditional Maori burial that Greg Carroll was given at One Tree Hill. Bono felt he could perform this only once, and did just one take in the studio."



The factual details aside, the feelings perhaps have a universal echo. The world is likened to a heart of darkness as Conrad had expressed. Does one, more often than not, bleed for speaking one's heart?Are poets naturally pessimistic? Is the world really a firezone where one's heightened sensitivity leads one to observe the degree of burns of million hearts, thinly veiled; or feel the battle-scars of countless survivors engaged in daily crusades.... Questions galore... encore..
And though so much blood has been made to spill under various pretexts of religion, order, sacrifice, honour, society, evil, goodness, and so much more is destined to be spilled, and while they all cry vociferously from the grounds, how often do we really listen? And why pretend to reflect, if I haven't really been able to absorb. For, how often have I tried to listen, imbibe, introspect and then reflect in a soothing manner?
Cry Jara, cry in vain..........

The Banished

The stony walls of the city scornfully stare at me,

The portals of benevolence are shut against me;

The mirrors of future in the receding sun, cast upon me a sordid halo

Banished by the lords of justice, I crawl upon my shadows.

What friends, what foes, what sobs, what jeers-

The venomous verdict keeps rumbling in my ears,

With remnants rustic, stacked against a stooped back

The people, the home, the future, the past - goodbye to all that.

To quench my thirst with the mist befalling my way,

With my stigma smeared name, am I forbidden to pray?

In the thorny desert that I tread, no oasis lies,

In the envelope of emptiness enshrouding me - what cries, what sights!

Fortune, affection, smile, hope, grace

All went past, bit by bit, merging slowly with the yesterday,

The lamp's long been put out, I survive like a zombie,

In the confines of the hourglass, I die with the passing of each die!

As I serve my sentence, I learn my lessons,

I brood over my misdeeds, shut my eyes in introspection,

Yet, tell me my lords, if I may dare to question -

Will I always be banished, famished; will I never be granted redemption?

Yet it's futile to longingly look back, when I've crossed several oceans,

Standing in the middle of nowhere, devoid of any destination;

Yet upon my fumbling lips, there's but a furtive wish -

Forgive me, if it'd be possible, my lords, when I'd finally fall asleep.

For the whispering voices of banshee echoes onto me,

How long shall I enact my part in this unending play of futility!

I've walked long carrying this inferno, I seek peace -

The silence of graves, the tired legs yearn for a place to eternally sleep!

a poem by Peter Meinke

here's a poem by Peter Meinke, written in 1976. I love it for its simplicity, wit and a subtle yet powerful underlying message...

Advice to My Son by J. Peter Meinke
(b.1932)

The trick is, to live your days

as if each one may be your last

(for they go fast, and young men lose their lives

in strange and unimaginable ways)

but at the same time, plan long range

(for they go slow; if you survive

the shattered windshield and the bursting shell

you will arrive

at our approximation here below

of heaven or hell).

To be specific, between the peony and the rose

plant squash and spinach, turnips and tomatoes;

beauty is nectar

and nectar, in a desert, saves--

but the stomach craves stronger sustaenance

than the honied vine.

Therefore, marry a pretty girl

after seeing her mother;

Show your soul to one man,

work with another;

and always serve bread with your wine.
But son, always serve wine.

Written and (C)1976 J. Peter Meinke

Of Silence, In Words

The potter’s hands; if only I could shape silence, somehow,

In moulds of imagination, coaxed into reality

Or perceptions collective, beyond the periphery of fantasy,

A vindication, a void, or a momentary revelry in ecstasy?

Words, do they masquerade as bridges

Between the islands - you and I;

Withhold what, from whom, in million words untold,

Your promises of nigh, or countless cindered sighs?

Words - are they then a mapping, a function,

A manifestation, collating expression and perception;

Sight, would you deem it then, the underlying

Extension, to paint the perfect vision?

Two ancient rafts, drifting in the tide of time,

Dying embers, of hope, victims of exactitude;

The see-saw life, its musical chairs,

And silence echoes in this valley of solitude.

Bangalore Diaries - For the Love of God

"Bangalore's crazy violence : Violence was incited,"
"Chaos in Bangalore after Rajkumar’s death"
"Rajkumar's death sparks violence in Bangalore"

He wasn't just a hero, he was veritably a god! So when god goes to meet greater GOD, the mortals were natually anguished. They mourned, they protested and in their display of homage a metropolis burnt! No, this isn't a scene from gothic literature or Mahabharata or any other epic. It's a modern day incident of a city loosely regarded as world's emerging technology hub! The aforementioned god is Doctor Rajkumar, a noble soul and a noted Kannada actor who died of natural cause at a ripe old age. What followed however, was the dance of death in which thousands of supposed fans took to streets, burnt vehicles, enforced bandh, theatened non-compliance with physical damages and further dire consequences. It resulted in the death of 8 persons and physical injury to another couple of hundreds, ...
What I'd like to draw attention on is not exactitude, but attitude - of the intellectuals, the intelligentsia and the educateds alike, who regretfully described it as a natural outpouring of the sentiments of masses and washed their hands off, or tried to underplay the whole episode. May be those 8 persons killed were the sole bread earners for their families! Nobody would know that, or try to find out, or worse, would care to know! What then should be the price of a commoner's life as deemd by the mob/society? Who deems the worth of a god, and more importantly, who all are earmarked to pay?
There's a thin line between faith and fanaticism and there's a definite price to pay when it is crossed!
I had also come across this news about a person who severed his thumb as an offering to Amma (a dubious but powerful poltician of TN)!
Reverance of this scale are dangerous indicators. The collective sanity of a million people becomes easy to hijack. The fragility and the utter lack of self-worth/identity of the masses become evident. From this volatility rises often a wild fire that can be easily directed in virtually any direction by any cunning manipulator....
It may be wise to ponder over these lines:
Unfortunate is the country that has no heroes,
Unfortunate is the country that needs heroes.

Lone Star

Crawling my way across voids ‘n empty spaces
Trying to reach out to you for years,
Down, when the officious sun goes, and a wicked world sleeps
I tiptoe into your room, sing lullabies in your ears.

Rooted since the dawn of ages, a lone star in a distant galaxy
Melancholy, deprived; I implore, befriend me sweet child
And come away with me, relinquishing all your woes
Across a starlit Milky Way, let me offer you a joyride.
* * *

Distances spanning lightyears, a lifetime of billion years,
Sentenced by cruel Cosmos, how long shall mourn the tears?
The cries, silent sighs, the illusion of innumerable tries
Futile they all are, sooner or later you realize.

And yet, my scars are no one’s but my very own
To none, at any cost, I’ll shall make them ever known;
Striking a truce with the unrelenting destiny
Putting up a veil, I become a partner in irony.

And you too innocence, perturbed by the scruples of a wicked world
Having cried many a times in silence, wounded by harsh words
And how many times, I see the longing eyes, staring at me
And how many times, I try, in vain, to subdue your agony!

Yet now as we sail in dreamboat, let’s bury the past in its grave
A ray of light has come wandering in this dungeon, let's celebrate
We’ll laugh, sing, dance, and play, have loads of fun
To make the most of these stolen moments, as best as we can.

For, liberty is valued most by those who are deprived
Like the bird in the golden cage, that had forgotten to smile
Like the forbidden music of trumpet, to a brave, vanquished soldier, dying in pain
Like an ever thirsty desert’s longingness for rain.

And what I wouldn’t trade, in this well of pleasure, for one brief dip
Hold on for once, O' jealous clock, I fervently plead
‘Coz the sun wouldn’t shine forever, and rain would flood our lives
When we'd be separated beyond reach, by countless skies.

And you'd slip in your world, and I in mine,
Never meet again, perhaps, churn in hell's grind;
Yet the troubles 'n hardships can never deny the secret gleam of our eyes
The benedicitions of memories, a memoir of our forays into paradise;
It'd be a wonder drug for you, to withstand forthcoming years of vicissitudes
And it's elixir to me, to endure another age of solitutde!

A Prayer for Dawn

***

Where the florid chinar leaves blissfully swayed,
Amidst their distinct din, gleeful children played;
Where creation's palette chose to paint a panoramic fantasy,
Yet Time, the leveller; and the rubble-remains of history.

'Twas a betrayal of hope, premature death of dream,
A bitter saga of sobs, 'n sighs, 'n screams;
The bliss of life swept away in a calamitous flood of violence,
Abandoned abodes, fear of death, and an eerie, gnawing silence.

The foresaken paths and the pallid flowers quiveringly beckon
Come back my innocent dwellers, the defeated deserters gone,
That time's a healer, change manifests, the storm shall eventually go,
So that the seeds of love, trust & joy - once again we may sow.

The night's been long, we pray for the dawn,
For scars to heal, the curse to abrogate, and spring to soon come;
For the cacophony of guns to give way to the innocent giggles of children,
So the infants may be privileged to inhale - that blessed fragrance of freedom!


Afterthought:
Though the inspiration is derived from the plight of Kashmir and Kashmiris, yet one'd feel there are so many others, spread across geographies who would feel the echoings to be familiar.. For, may be, this is a story of blood-brothers engaged in blood-baths, under the different nomenclatures of jihad, freedom-struggle, revolution, terrorism, etc. where the ultimate martyr is ironically, INNOCENCE...

On Bonding - a small poem

Sometimes words wouldn't seem to suffice-
Whence, silence & gestures are employed,
. . . . to fill in the voids...



For, words, at times may yearn to wear,
More than merely meaning,
Yet, the thoughts seldom cease to betray,
What the encumbered soul does fail to say.



For, more things in our lives,
Than you and I, maybe conditioned to believe,
Are ushered by, what for us, 
Others - wish and pray.

about a movie called Hazaaron Khwaishein Aisi

...yesterday, I watched Sudhir Mishra's new film, Hazaaron Khwaishein Aisi, and the overwhelming experience coaxed me into writing this blog giving me an excuse to extol about the movie..
To begin with disclaimers, it's not a song 'n dance story, neither a triumph of good over evil; the protagonists are neither heroes nor villains, mere mortals. While it can be deemed political, yet it doesn't make noise, doesn't malign, seldom judges, and raises more questions than provides answers.
If it hasn't confounded you yet, lets carry on..

The title is lifted from a Ghalib's couplet about the limtlessness of desires:
'hazaaroN KHwahishaiN 'eisee ke har KHwahish pe dam nikle
bohot nikle mere armaaN lekin phir bhee kam nikle'


Hmmm, so whats it about anyway, the uninitiated may ask?
The central characters are a bunch of youth(two guys 'n a girl) from a prestigious college, on the road to realize their ambition/calling while trying to discover their own selves, all of which is in a state of flux, perhaps a reflection of the era (turbulent 70s, emergency, socialism, disenchantment...). They take separate paths, but their paths do meet often. The girl is the link. They are all single-minded in their pursuit of what they deem as their desire or calling. Yet they are vulnerable, have a softer side and are more victims than perpetrators.
The period is just before the beginnning of the caste wars in Bihar. The opression, belief in fatality, police brutality are well portrayed. The climax is ironic and evocative.
Its an intelligent movie, thought provoking 'n intense. Such powerful stories are narrated only once in a while, not to speak of the ensemble that breathes life into it. The jokes are often intertwined with ironies. It disturbed me just as much as it overwhelmed me..

the night's lullaby

Have you ever tried to listen to the song of the dark night?
Does it whisper something in your ears, bewitch you with its lullaby?
Does it unchain your deepest hidden feelings?
Does it fuel your desires- of longingness, of escaping away somewhere, anywhere?
Does it soothe you with its solitude?
In the night, when all the worldly attachments leave you on your own, do you try to gather your broken bits, dust them and glue them together, in order to brave again the whiplash of the world when the dawn breaks and the mortal combat begins??
Does the night empower you, grant you freedom to dream aloud, sans interference, sans the apprehension of getting caught by voyeristic eyes 'n getting embarrased?
Does its vastness humble you, makes you lose your ego, your mask, the colours that you've deliberately painted upon yourself 'coz it reflects nothing, merely absorbs!
When calmness settles, and the solitude 'n stillness engulf your surroundings, do you look for your bruised self buried in the mortal remains of the day, nurture it with solace?
In the night, does your belligerant poetic soul rebel to break free from the shackles of mundane being, struggling to contribute a verse or leave its signature in the vast cauldron of cosmic chaos?

CONFESSIONS of a BORN SPECTATOR - A Poem

The land of glory, antiquity, the land of religion,
The land of apathy, passivity, the land of corruption;
The land of colours, contrasts and omnipotent politicians,
The land of gullible masses and powerful magicians;
The land of snake charmers and ‘sacrificial offerings’ at the altar
The land of magic, mirage and vagrant breeze from the stars;
I’d see no evil, neither hear nor speak, for I harbour no plans to be another martyr
Have no confusion whatsoever please; I’m merely a detached spectator.

4000 years into trade, we’ve a ‘sale’ tag for practically everything-
Be it any qualification, opportunity or even our own offspring,
‘What you are seeing has already occurred,’ Krishna once revealed-
So perhaps goes the truth behind matches, elections being fixed;
‘All the world’s a stage,’ I was told, but I know its best actors
I dedicate these lines to thy name, I chant thy prayers,
Pelt no stones at me, sons of Gandhi, I’m not the whistle-blower,
What shall I do to make this clear, I’m only a detached spectator?

Where they fight for food, for God, even for love and peace
Where fighting epitomizes survival, fighting finally for the place to 'fall asleep’,
Where water and bread are dear, yet life comes cheap
And waiting to die of enemy’s nukes, poverty and disease may set your soul free.
Yet be not surprised so soon, mon ami, there are many more to come-
It's all about magic and mirage, didn’t I tell you simpleton?
Unnerve me not by those grudges jehadis, I know not any kind of warfare-
I said it once, I yell it again, I’m merely a detached spectator!

Where truth goes into hibernation every time money rises to speak,
And the jingling of coins is undoubtedly the best sound of music;
Where ascetics from the high thrones of their palaces do preach
And 330 million gods and goddesses dictate the way we live.
Where sun shines unevenly yet for some there’s always spring
But at dusk they all come to Ganga, to absolve their every sin;
Mercy! I plead judges, condemn me not unto the beast, I am no gladiator,
And I’m neither a mirror that may dare to reflect; just a trivial, dumb spectator.

Spare me movers and shakers, can’t be thy blue eyed boy,
I get dizzied by those skyscraper heights, let me be a small fry;
Oh, Rama, Krishna, be off to sleep, and to open your eyes, not you dare
Be not puzzled, I tell you, 'twas probably just another nightmare;
The poor hungry and ailing, the rich gobbling in mouthful
And the smiling Buddha’s proud portrait proclaims, `all things bright ‘n beautiful’;
Impertinence no more, shelter me my lords of jungle, I’m no traitor,
Rest assured, I’ll always be what I had always been - a harmless detached spectator!
(Had penned this satirical piece long time ago! Thought I'd share it here!)

Of voice, emotions and the ensuing train of thought!

Was just listening to this song by Shubha Mudgal from Raincoat: Akele Hum Nadiya Kinare. It's about the lament of a rural woman waiting/pining for her lover. There's a distinct feeling of loneliness, helplessness and pain emanating from the voice. It made me think over the suitability of voice and its correspondence with the type of feeling expressed. Shubha Mudgal has a very deep throaty voice with a certain earthliness and rustic charm, which is quite different from the melliflous, almost perfect voices of Lata & Asha, the stalwarts of female playback singing in Bollywood films. I do wonder whether Lata could have conveyed the feeling of heartache in the aforementioned song in a more convincing & effective way. If you have watched Raincoat, you will agree that it blends with the rustic and earthly image (of characters, situation, etc.) portrayed in the movie.
Also, is it that, to convey the same feeling of genuineness, female folk singers are preferred to have that throaty and rustic voice? Examples may be Sapna Awasthi, Shubha Mudgal, etc. If this is actually true, I can also think of examples of male playback singers in films. S.D. Burman's voice in the song Mere Sajan Hain Us Paar from Bandini as well as Kahe Ko Roye from Aradhana, and more recently Bhupen Hazarika in Dil Huum Huum Kare from Rudali; in all of them the feeling of sadness comes out very genuinely and evocatively.
There can be counter examples- like Lata's Aye Dil-e-Nadan from Razia Sultan or Asha's Yeh Kya Jagah Hai Dsoton from Umarao Jaan, but then it can also be argued that a princess' (in the former case) or a famous courtesan's (in the latter case) voice cannot be expected to be rustic, even to convey pain; they ought to possess that edge of unattainable honeyed smoothness even in their suffering!
Would the opposite of this hypothesis also hold true i.e. voices that are not very throaty and rustic/earthy wouldn't be most effective in conveying feelings of joy/happiness?
Does the voice goes better with image(e.g. rural/peasant like = rustic/throaty) or with feelings(e.g. throaty/rustic = suffering, heartbreak) or is it that there's no pattern/link at all? Is there a psychological connection? If yes, can it be exploited to obtain a mapping for predicting psychological behaviour depending upon input voice?
Perhaps it may sound absurd, perhaps thought provoking but at this point of time I can't help being swayed by a train of thought!

The Brainfever Bird- Book Review

Recently finished reading this novel called: The Brainfever Bird by Allan Sealy. Thought i should write something about my impressions. To me this isn't a book where you go rushing on the highway of reading at 60 /70 pages an hour. It has a languid charm which beckons to be absorbed as opposed to be observed. It's about relationships: some named, mostly unnamed/un-nameable!
On surface, it is about a redundant Russian scientist's sojourn into India hoping to sell his expertise in bio-weapons; however, the plot often takes a backseat. What contributes to the novel's distinctive edge is the intense and poignant portrayal of personal conflicts, all puppets, so elegant in their external embroidaries, yet helplessly being swayed in the sinister drift of circumstances. No wonder, then, the leading lady, the novelist's muse is a pupetter by profession , and may be, prophetically nomenclatured as Maya. Of all the characters she is the most interesting as well as the most unstable one. She is full of contradictory vibes and yet draws admirers like moths to the flame, willing to plunge themselves in the vortex of her dangerous, fragile self. She is subtly compared to Razia,the warrior princess and the only female ruler of Delhi, although able yet brought down by her enemies. Living in Old Delhi, at stone's throw from Razia's tomb, she tries to come to terms wit her past while discerning her future.
Allan Sealy's words have the fluidity of prose. There are some really wonderful imageries , strewn unevenly across the story! Some excerpts from the book:

"Youth is a country. I used to live there. The inhabitants are deterimned to emigrate, exiles long to return. But the borders are sealed, as if plague had broken out there and the United Nations had sent highly paid soldiers to patrol the passes."..
* * *
.. ... The battle of the kings was the climax of the show. All puppets fought, a child in the audience learnt: that was their nature. They danced and they crowed and they fought. ....... How the kings fought when all their men lay dead! Here was their essence, in this eternal turning and hurling of oneself at the other, so that every terrible thump turned to flesh and bone the cottony wadding you knew inside, turned also the birdlike cries into a voice which could easily be yours, thinned and twisted in pain. Till you saw that the strings by which they swung, far from being the proof of their unreality, as your older cousin whispered, were the very stuff of their suffering. The pain was in the strings. But what if ( and this thought pricked you hard so you woke up and lay their staring with your hands clapped in your ears) what if some of the people in the audience who had sat watching with you, who brushed your arm or leaned against you, were also puppets- had cloth in them? What if- impossible! someone in your family...? And then your eyes went quite round with terror as the possibility sank in. What if you yourself were a puppet?"
***

A poem about unrequited love!

From the archive of memories:

An image that beckons to me, a silhouette on the sand,
An oft recurring déjà vu, I reach out- to gather…..mere emptiness in my hands;
A mystical laughter, that mesmerizing gaze-
Spellbound by hypnotic eyes, driven on a wild goose chase.

I call for you in all directions, from the middle of this void,
Smouldering in a cold fire, I look up to the skies;
You haunt me in my dreams, but vanish just as I open my eyes,
You offer me dreams of paradise, yet desert me on the wild.

Despite being your source of solace, why subject me to this cruel irony?
Dispel this despair enshrouding, subdue this agony.
For, this is what I hope against hope, battle against time-
Why am I paying this penance, have I committed any crime?

A thirst unquenched, a soul unkempt, and teardrops in weary eyes,
Prying eyes unnerving, an ever increasing yearning, and flickering is that old fire;
A smile forgotten, a rickety, forlorn sigh, is all I’ve left with me
First fate tricks, and now, are you trying to play games with me?

And wait will I, just as I had been, waiting unto death,
Shed if you please, some tears, when I’d draw my last breath;
And fade will I, first, into dust, then, from your memories, into the oblivion
And dwindle into a twinkle, an insignificant little star, far, in the horizon.

But if you thaw, somehow, glance back for a certain someone,
You would notice me waiting, outside your hallowed portals of heaven;
And ages hence, when still the winds would blow, and rivers would flow-
In this same month of spring,the breeze may decide to sing-
The trees too, with the breeze, may echo our stories,
And then, you & I would be- two frozen footprints in the archive of memories!

venerable vermin seeks to begin!

You're searching, Joe, for things that don't exist; I mean beginnings.
Ends and beginnings -- there are no such things. There are only middles.
-Robert Frost

It's a wrong place you have come searching. I'm no torchbearer, no hero, no celebrity.
I dwell in anonymity, in the dark dungeons of my nebulous thoughts. In the grand
cosmic game, i'm no king, no bishop, no mover or shaker, but a mere pawn; a puppet
rather than a pupetteer. In this 'animal farm', I'm merely a vermin, sitting on the fence,
keenly observing the worldly spectacle. And yet i'm no ordinary dot, to be so easily effaced from the realms of existence. Quite proficient in juggling the masks, so rather a venerable vermin!

Ah, my Belov'ed fill the Cup that clears
To-day Past Regrets and Future Fears:
To-morrow!--Why, To-morrow I may be
Myself with Yesterday's Sev'n Thousand Years.

-The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam