Their Father, Prodigal …
Closest to alcohol,
And dearly, a legion to pride
An egocentric being,
Full of own-self contentment
Of not self-achieved triumphs
His acquaintances lead-
In the way of his insensible life
With his own blood and flesh
Finding their - beyond the pale - existence
Within the labyrinth of his self-colonized thoughts
A fallen corner stone he is…
In his own homestead,
An un-symbiotic pest to his diligent wife,
A toxic weapon to impede her endeavors -
Constantly regressing
The upsurge of her toiled sweat
He calls it ‘The inevitable fate’
– She calls it ‘Marriage’
He affably appeals to the fictitious gaze
Of those insentient outsiders -
Who he regards much as acquiescent friends
Yet friends who but rob him off every day…
From the only sanity that there is for him –
- HOME -
And as much as he strives to relish them,
They jest him in the shadows as a fool
And a wretched stranger
Among the collar of his own natives
He condemns the gaffes of his fore folks
But in twofold,
Mimics the flaws of his fore father’s
And it’s awfully a pity, rather than ironic
That the dire wolf would in the end
Be cloaked in the sheep’s skin…
Like a VENOMOUS viper
He is enthralled with an arsenal
Of disdained expressions
And deeply soiled words…
As an amour and a shield rooted to obscure
His paternal responsibilities
His mocks are ferociously profound
At the fall of his children-
Who without his credit
Have schooled way ahead to headway
And within shadows with his “conceited friends”;
He viciously sharpens the blades
Of his indecorous tongue…
In a wait to attack his children fiercely,
In their time of weakness and despair
He laughs them off – Gravely!
As they struggle feebly to recuperation
And beats his chest hysterically,
In triumph over their anguish
But upon their resurgence to sovereignty,
He - on tenterhooks - clings upon them
For definitive dependence
Funny enough -
They still call him ‘Father’
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem