Amidst realism and shadow I stood wearing an ordinary
face, inconspicuous but rebellious. I had left home in search of illumination,
my grave was lying breathless, the flowers on it looked stale, the soil had
turned grey being tired of carrying the color red, the trees had turned black
being burdened of the color green, there was nothing around me that had life,
nothing that breathed anything other than the truth; the truth of the dead and
the buried.
I looked at my grave only to find, my name was erased, I kept rubbing the stone to find some trace of my name that was once inscribed on my grave, but apart from the last alphabet of my last name, there was
nothing to be found - "E". I sat down on the ground feeling like a
stranger in my own house, more like a guest. I was unaware for how long has
been my name erased from the grave-plate! And for how long I have been a
stranger and a guest in my own house? Just when my mind began
contemplating some questions and their
truthful answers about myself and my identity, about my life that has gone-by,
and the number of years I have spent in this dark den; I heard some sounds
coming from the nearby park located near the graveyard. I paid attention and found it was none other than
one of my own written verses which was being recited by a young male voice. A
moment of ecstasy ran through my heart, but before this moment could build to a
permanent state of happiness in my mind my nameless grave took over the entire
space in my mind, heart and eyes, and therefore turned me into a blind soul
towards contentment and joy. This being the perks of being a famous poet after more than
seventy years of my death.
I decided to take my rebellious legs to the park and hear
my verses more clearly. Upon reaching the park, I found that a huge picture of
mine was kept for display, decorated with flowers and scented candles, and a
huge gathering was listening to this young man's recital of this dead poet's
verses which I wrote some eighty years ago.
I stood there inconspicuous and rebellious amidst realism
and shadow wearing an ordinary face. For I am yet to know which is my house -
that nameless unattended grave where there are dry flowers or these people who
are celebrating my birth anniversary with fresh flowers and scented candles in a park?
