It’s about night time,
I stick the pen on my paper
soliloquy, tirade with myself
on how another day went by
Thereupon I rest the pen
and wrap my shawl for a long walk
into the night,
With my scotch on the rock
and wander past the rust-stricken gates
tombs, minarets and servile ghosts
eerily gliding in their shadowless form.
I cross a pond and some cottages by the road
I cross the mulberry trees, where the bats
hang upside down, their humble abode.
I stood below the lamppost and took the final gulp
Listening to the screeching noises my soul makes wanting to
be free of the flesh.
But I baulk at the idea, insouciant to the call
I look at the lamppost once more and,
And I look at the empty glass
One spirit gone, one still within
what a fine blend one would call
One ascends my madness
another decimates my life
Too early to be free too old to be caged
Tis is life.
Too long a walk, I take a u turn
and hear again my soul shrieks
“Voila Voila, let it be, let it be.”
