So many doors before me,
and each single one open.
Yet one cannot enter,
walking silently by a door.
These dead things
loom larger with every hour that goes.
I pass the door beyond my freedom
and glimpse my haggard face.
I look for those who could be mine.
I look for those who once
protected me by believing in me
when I could not believe in myself.
Listening to conscience is not performance.
Within this world, debts are owed,
and I would pay them out of fear.
What lay beyond these doors?
Fossilized specimens, old bones,
mystic carvings of a religious past?
All memories merely,
that would bring a price?
The dim light pulls my life back.
I stare at my door, overpowered by time.
Doors, how do they keep unfolding, what these doors of dreams? Where do they go to down the memory lanes? Leading to what corridors of thought and idea? How their planks? Are these the doors of rock-built temples? Are these of lime clay and small brick-made double-storey buildings? Or, are these the doors of dreams? The doors of the heart? What are these? But which door to enter by, taking to where, we know it not?
Are these the door of palaces, palatial buildings? Are these of mansions? Or, of rock-cut temples where just single doors are to lead in?
So many doors are before, but which doorway to choose by and slip through? Where does the door lead to, who to say to, how to say it about the pathway, the inner view, the outer view lying it unknown? There is a difference in between my world and their world.
What it is inside, how to say it? How the rooms, corridors? How the roofs? How olden is it? Who built it when? The architectural designs themselves tell of history, time and age; building techniques and materials used in.
Whose is this house? Who lived in it when? Who are now therein? How was it when people were with? How is it when they are not? Does the door take to inside or make it pass through the verandah to the open for moving somewhere?
The earth we are on, what was it in the past? Were there houses before? Were the bodies burnt before? Things get transformed, metamorphosed in course of time. They are not so as they seem to be. What it seems to be is not. Appearances do not remain the same. So is mass and matter.
Doors as a poem is an indifferent poem so full of curiosity as well as inquisitiveness to put forth the existential questions of life bordering on the edge of nihilism and nothingness. Say, what is it substantial? Which is what, how to say it? As the times keep changing so do the things and situations of life and the world.
How the doors, the doors of dreams? If so many doors are open, which doorway to choose? Where it to lead to? Who in the house to greet? Had it been of anyone before? Had there been anyone living in it? The history of the house we know it not; the history of people we know it not.
Whose rented house is he taking on rent? Who had it been the renters before? Who on rent now? Every time the house is given to tenants. Sometimes even the mansions of history dilapidate and fall into debris when they get old and start crumbling to dust.
So many doors before him and each single one lies it open and yet one cannot enter, walking silently by a door. These dead things loom larger with every hour that goes. He passes the door beyond his freedom and glimpses his haggard face. He looks for those who could be mine, who once protected him by believing in him when he could not believe in himself. Listening to conscience is not performance. Within this world, debts are owed, and he would pay them out of fear. What lay beyond these doors? Fossilized specimens, old bones, mystic carvings of a religious past, is it the reality? All memories merely, that would bring a price. The dim light pulls his life back. He keeps staring at his door, overpowered by time.
Reclining by the door, one can be marked viewing the pathways leading to nowhere, brooding about life and the world; lost in the distances lurking ahead, the horizons meeting the grounds. Where does ‘manna’ go to, how to say to? Sometimes it staggers and wanders far from here. The body remains it here, but the heart travels to, wanders to just like a wanderer. Only the doors to glide through are the things of taking the flight, the dreamy glide to confide and repose in finally.
From the door how to view the pathway, the road of life and the world, where the path leads to? How to view the olden house so historical and archaeological? The history of earth, time and man, what to say it about? How the doors of the mansions? How the doors of dreams? Sitting at the door sometimes we think it or get lost into the visionary dreams and reflections of our own and the broodings leading us to metaphysics lying flung open to delve into.
The house is the place from which one may think over and when not of the house, man of the paths is the reality. When with the people, he used to care it not, but now when they are not, he feels it for. The same house sometimes remains it peopled with and the same sometimes turns into a haunted house. What to say? How to say it? Who can but ever about the situations of life, the conditions of life? Lonely moorings where they to lead to, vacant thinking and reflections ultimately? Whom we had to believe we could not it then. Those who believed in us we could not believe them, is it not the reality? But whenever it blows about, he tries his utmost best to be with the door protecting him.
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