Caravan of a Nomad

Anarchist : I shall continue in the same post rather than adding another one. This is one of the product of what I was reading . A set of political ideologies , out of which Anarchism was one.Although , this one goes a little beyond propagating a belief. It's just an attempt to read the mind of an outlaw , on the brink of a crime in the eyes of the state but what to him is a revolution.

Outcome of Mundanity :I had given up on writing as such . Not been doing it for so long . Yesterday I did tried to pen down something of worth . Tried for at least two hours . Deleted at least two poems , which I wrote and didn't like . Then I left it and went to sleep. But I could hardly sleep . As I stared out of Window , some thoughts came which made me want to write again . Though I didn't like the outcome as there was so much in my mind to be covered in one piece of poem . It came out as a rather jumbled up integration of random thoughts. But since it was after a long time , that I could write something that made sense , I decided to to put that in my blog .


Anarchist .

Swift as a horse on the racecourse ,

Keen as a dog , on a trail .

He was moving with hasty steps ,

The movement he believes mustn’t fail.

He has been waiting all these years,

His heart is pounding but he stays strong .

The cold winter is unleashing a chill ,

But the thrill in his heart is making him sweat.

The time has come when the lesson be learned ,

The server has served , and has served enough.

The revolution is knocking on the door ,

Retribution is a word that must be heard.

He has suffered and since wore the hatred,

the hate that cripple his once righteous soul.

The hunger and cold has made him rough ,

Weak have died , he has been told.

He doesn’t believe in the rule of the law ,

As laws were made by the people with flaw .

He believes in his right to follow his heart ,

The moment has arrived to put it to test.

He doesn’t believe in the word of god ,

His god had died a slow silent death .

If he can watch children die of hunger,

He says such a god , is more of a wretch.

He doesn’t believe in Left or right ,

The lust to rule consumes them all .

The rule of the people is never in sight ,

To rule out the rule is his taken vow.

He has arrived , where the stage was set ,

With people having gathered , to listen to his foe.

Sun has been hiding behind the clouds ,

As if afraid to look to what might unfold.

Taking a deep breath , he recedes in the crowd .

Wiping the sweat off his palms ,

He looks to the skies , the one last time ,

It won’t take long  Mother , to be in your arms.

He looks at his watch , as his man take the steps ,

With the applause of the blinded sheep’s sounding out loud.

He checks his pocket  and holds the weapon tight ,

As the man on the stage takes a bow .

Swift like a light , he picks on his weapon ,

And shoots at the man three times in a row .

Crying out revolution , as he makes his kill ,

Among the shrieks and sounds that followed the fall .

As death followed in bullets , he smiled to his last breath ,

Quenching the pain , by the joy of his deed .

Later in times to some he was a villain ,to many a hero

But to us an Anarchist who bore the seed.

 Outcome Of Mundanity

It was a day like any other day ,

There was nothing that happened , there was nothing to say .

I wondered alone , as I landed on the bed ,

Isn’t this routine , is what I dread.

How many days , are just so alike ,

When we all say that we have a short life.

Why can’t each day be an event to remember ,

laden with doubt  , but not dreary or somber.

A hour hand is ticking , so is me ,

We both start together and end where were we.

Time has changed but we stay the same ,

Spending the day , in the circle of frame.

As I stared out through the shabby little window ,

watching  the clouds ,gently moving across.

I made out a face of all those patterns ,

And it was smiling and playful , with a childish glow.

I envy those vapors that makes these clouds ,

Being carried across over  the flight  of the wind,

Not knowing where they will reach when they chose to be the rain ,

Being sprayed over the gods , or flowing in a stream.

As I look around , I see all these people ,

So happy and contend with what they do .

They have chosen a road , en route to their deaths ,

Comfort of the journey , is the consolation they know.

I want to cross over , the paths and the routes ,

And see the world in its best and the worst.

I don’t want shade , on the road of my travel ,

It kills my shadow, the only one I trust.