Celebrations ?

Is it a festival or the shallowness of our thoughts?

Is it a celebration amongst the onslaughts?

Celebration?

What is it?

How can we celebrate when we are supposed to mourn?

Mourn while walking over the shards of hyaloid dreams,

Through which we once looked at the world.

Lamenting about the withering fate.

Bemoaning the loss of senses.

We locked ourselves in rooms with greasy walls daubed with dirt,

Which smelled of soot and without any spurt.

Where the sun peeped through the chasms in the corrugated sheets of tin,

Faintly lighting up the place, making it as bright as it could have ever been.

The windows that showed the dreams of tomorrow have now turned lacteal,

Incessant biding till the laceration heals.

The gashed piece of tabloid in the corner doesn't read our news.
neither has it anything to do with us nor does it belong to our world.
The flyers of the manifestos seem to be beguile,
And every baby kisser a charlatan.
A convivial life full of brio and verve is an allegory.
Happy life: a phenomenon that never happened.
Dusty, tilted frame with head of The Father, chipped at the corner.
Every face that you see here is just another foreigner.
The destiny is painted with fog here.
And the illusive vagary caught up in the lead sky.
But giving up is not we have learnt while we have persisted through the time.
Not enough to cover the body but naked ambitions are hard to stop.
The eyes behind broken glasses, cloudy with cataract, still see the hope.
Children still wish to fly and wave to a car that passes and every jet that flies.
The day is not far when we shall be sad no more.
Happiness will exist, not only in tales but our lives too.
And I ?
You wonder what I would do?
I would not write this anymore.