Genre: Rhyme, Love, Relationship

One Voice Remains Unheard
by Dharmesh Chaubey

There will be time to look back,

A time to regret and enjoy my guilt.

There will be time for me to pack

My memories and hopes that I built

Forgetting my scars and letting go.

There will be time for us to bow

‘Gainst our own decisions; and betraying thee

My love, would be easy knowing

I am meant to be alone, and alone

With you or with none, for loving

This frail and weak heart. Bygone

Are the days of my reasoning and replies;

I shall be the one with no sense,

I shall be the one who only lies

And waits for the coming absence

Of his thoughts who would go numb

Overpowered by the far cries of faith.

Again the same anguish pricks,

The same anger raises its head.

My lustful desire wears holy mantle and shrieks

The mingled cries of faith and bed.

Am I not to be free?

Am I condemned to sin?

What more do I have to see?

In battle for my doom who will win?

Is it not enough that I have suffered?

I have suffered my breaking, my loneliness,

I have suffered and yet my cries are unheard.

I have suffered the pain of harness,

I have suffered the loss of time

And I have lost all I had:

My watch, a cat in prime,

A hundred-rupee note, my notepad,

My family, friends, and me,

Who will get that back?

All my wanderings are trivial

[My body is being decorated for its funeral,

I am going to have my burial.

Oh! But, I’ll have to miss the evening serial,

‘Record that for me, I’ll be back by midnight,

After all I have to get ready very early,

I’ll die again by falling from a height’]

All my memories that I held dearly

Melt and flow with malignant tears,

The bitter ones cut deep and scar,

They have come alive! All my fears,

I shall run far and away, away and far.

But it is my black shadow in darks

That follows me creeping. The skies

Are crowded with ugly little sparks,

The sun is to hide waiting for its rise.

When black night had feasted on us

Then will come… but what will come?

Waiting and waiting and waiting

For a figure heard and read in holy texts—

[The stories of murdering and creating]

All the nows and rest of nexts

[Which I made from scratch!]

Are to disappear and reappear foxily—

With shrill voices and images morbid,

And I am to wait, dreamily or numbly

For my smiling Godot to succeed

In his endeavours of peace and liberty.

For there will be time to remember

That once I had a hope of liberty

From my lost past. The cold December

Just went by reminding me of my losses

And I am left alone in avalanche

Of my unfulfilled desires. Life tosses

And flings me back like sheep on ranch,

Like pebbles on shores of Dover Beach.

Should I speak the voices hushed away?

Will there be any end to coiling mysteries?

“And the Red Death held sway over all”

And all the books of histories

Speak the tales of men killing men.

Claiming land, woman, revenge. But to me

“Death’s but a walking shadow, a poor player

That struts and frets his hour upon the stage

And then is heard no more. It is a tale

Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,

Signifying nothing.” But one voice remains unheard

One tale remains to be told in time

For no matter what I begin to do

It will always end in despair of my heart.

I am not to be heard, not to be believed

I am neither to be thought of nor spoken of.

Hear me here and now and bury me back

I have never known thee; neither you me.

* * * * *

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