Born a few thousand years old.
Aged by fate and heritage,
maturing in subjectivities of history.
Thus I stand amidst others, who,
like myself, stand testimony to
distances of time.
Separated from the contemporary
by extraordinary dimensions:
I behold Arjuna unleash the weapon
of suicidal madness.
Divinity smeared the dust
of that ancient war on my soul.
With maternal pride and anxiety
I watch the fiery saint on a horseback:
Atish Dipankar dissolving
in the Tibetan horizons;
I welcomed piquant glances
that were washed upon my shore.
With pride, I hold the Brahman
and hence, Abdul Gafur.
My aesthetics are prenatal:
even though time has eroded
a billion spines of me,
He satisfies my iminent death