written by: Satabdi Saha
I step out of myself to understand
The folly of your creativity.
Befuddled, I can’t reason with that cosmic impulse
That rushed through your senses
Leading to genesis.
You roared in gusts of pristine fires and quakes
To chart out the beginning
Of the circumambient tints of being,
Yet a fruitless and wasteful expenditure
Of the primeval heave to propagate,
Then gradually to deconstruct bit by bit.
You, giant baby, dashing the mud-ball
Self -designed, for the infernal pleasure
Of hearing it crack and peel off.
As the bard said, it is just a sport enjoyed.
Your wild-fire laughs in ashes of greens,
Storms or waves whiplashing into pulp,
Upper crust to dregs pushed in a bowl;
There isn’t any escaping, fated creatures,
Born of whims and hyperboles.
Your earthquakes, jaw monstrously,
Crushing, grinding, pounding with relish
Figures, minute and large–
Your signatures; kind lord, ethereal,
Defeating efforts of the bold
Eager to outsmart you in fair, daring games,
On the chessboard of life.
Your lust for command and control
Is a passing scare, yet most are still pawns
Netted, in dread of your calamitous wrath,
Subverting them to devotees
Of your super power.
Others are better employed,
To wield your banners
In religions devised, creating
War, division and despair.
Divinity unchallenged, therefore.
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