Ballads of An Absurdist.

#1

The stolen sun
And the hero that was born.

By
Nandita SaiKia
& Nemo Nobody.
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Seven ate nine
with-out six,
six went away in search of eight,
And eight was strolling with four,
its better half.

Four was a
diehard romantic
while eight was someone
who would long for infinity
but only when it is rotated perpendicularly

But infinity
was across the horizon
and eight wasn't on
board yet
Eight added ten,
to make 'a team'
and built an ark to row
the waters to the place
where the sun sets in crimson hues.

And when crimson
met the rowed waters
of 'a team',
he grew envious of their optimism.

Envious he was
because of the
things he didn't have,
and the things
he had he didn't value them

He wanted to meet blue.
The beautiful cerulean blue,
who lived across the sky.
But there dwells the lair of an
evil old one-oh-two who kept
four locked with one, two, three

And there they were.
Together in their labyrinth
of pain of having to see a lovedone from far.
Like stars.
Knowing how they can see
but not touch.
Eight and crimson.
Four and cerulean.

Eight and four.
Crimson and cerulean.
Three managed to take their vows
while desecration looms over their fate, since one-oh-two stole the sun,
due to which the stars lost their shine and darkness reigned over the horizon.

But shine is a thing
for the eye and there is
darkness; no news to the blind.

All that shines would be gold,
don't be fooled by that.

The things
that have lost their
lustre seek light in others,
they remain hidden,
their secrets cached on little
black boxes.

There lay beneath
the boxes
their wooden hearts
The hearts that bleed splinters
The hearts that falter at the seams

The devil smirks
while he encodes the events,
He be sly if eight and crimson
and four and cerulean procreates
the lucky literary number four-two.

The baby asks,
"does it mean we all have a wooden heart?"

Mommy says that
we all have our dark sides.
So it means we all have our tiny black boxes inside our beds hiding our wooden hearts.

And when no one looks
the number one-oh-two sneaks in,
only to devour the rustic hearts.

'Sewn the hearts,
nailed them shut,
yet fathomlessly do we bleed'

And four says,
'caged we found,
caged you been born,
freedom is rare,
if you are brave enough,
your hearts shall be unshackled,
like the Pinocchion vessel beating
inside the boxes,
the sun hidden inside the basement.'

Like the way Krishna was born.
Sending out miracles of light through
the cracks of prison bars.
The seas separated,
the milk churned,
the serpentbed helped
the heera cross the bay
and the devil that stole the golden
shall be vanquished one day.

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