I may conquer a million enemies,
The scriptures warn,
But my one true enemy
Still survives within.
I have fought this battle
All my life. Now, we are spent,
My ego and I, bruised survivors
Of an unequal strife.
Life is that Kurukshetra,
That Uhud, that Champ de Mars,
In which there are no victors,
Only victims, wounds and scars.
Unbuckle my armour,
sheathe my sword,
Unstring my bow,
Break every arrow.
I am an untimely Ashoka,
A belated Buddha.
I know now I did not need
to kill others,
To destroy their seed.
I am a Pandava-Kaurava,
Split from a shared seed.
I know my ego will die
With me, but I am the seed
of my own resurrection.
My spirit will survive
To wear that an unwon laurel,
That thornless crown.
22 NOVEMBER 2016 |