A Hero's tale

The light at the end of the tunnel was dimming 

when she held my hand and said this was the time 

to dive in the netherworld of experiences 

move beyond you and me 

where we will never be the you and me 

but perhaps there would be one 

who would refuse to join in 

pulling out at the last time 

from the crevices of hope 

for history to fill his story 

with certain myths 

He would be the hero 

who never joined the turn of the 

road when it swirled around breaking 

narratives of the day to day life we lived in 

he would never know the last fairy tale 

which lulled the yet unborn to sleep

In these labyrinths of never ending tales 

he would never know the sun 

which used to wake before us in the dawn 

and cuddled us to sleep in the dusk 

or of the river which refused to carry our memories 

 the snow which melted to remind that it 

was never late for a spring in life 

or of the tiny boy which was me 

who never knew the tree he rooted in the soil 

will turn up to devour him one day

Will he ever know that there was a small girl 

born on the day he refused to come home 

who never wanted to play with her toys

but just hold on to her gun 

for in her dreams she still saw the monster 

which curled under her bed even before 

the threads of innocence could enamour her

Perhaps he was just a hero to be 

as all heroes are, born out of a myth 

for they sustain the myth which we see 

all the day in the mirror 

a mask which we dont acknowledge 

a tale which will dominate on all those lips 

of grandmas who never relieved a dream 

never created a tale of their own, tied and 

crumbled and crushed under the bounds 

of social


 Yet you would be born with 

the same story in your mouth not knowing 

drying lips and dying dreams crushed under 

the smell of gunpowder and receding imagination 

of a grain lying in the shallows of nourishment 

In the dimming light there lay a creation 

between you and me 

not of a hero to be 

nor songs which will die down when the 

music sings but a secret caravan of beauty 

which starts from desires of being 

of what lies as the shadow of towering 

images dominating my stories 

and as skyscrapers filling the contours of 'beings'

where you and me used to lie around forbidden waters