RIC S. BASTASA
10: 49 P.M. And Undefinite With What To Write
there is this sickness that compels me to write. There is this nausea that makes me
capture the words.
There is this pain that opens me up
all images that soon appear like shadows of birds on the side of a hill
the full moon.
there is this void that behaves like a big mouth but cannot speak.
there is this silence that dignifies
It is like an old woman waiting for no one by the stairs facing the dusty road in an old country.
i have these eyes that look for nothing like a dead man staring without feeling what lies there in front of those who scrutinize an event.
there is this trembling of the flesh in the arms while facing the monitor inside a closed room.
there is this peace in exhaustion.
there is this knowledge of a dead end and there are no cars there.
No doors but only walls.
there is this walk without a definite direction.
there is this purpose that you cannot describe.
there are lots of lost meanings that slip from our tongues and which we cannot
there is this game of boredom where we are all losers.
there is this acceptance without question because there is nothing worth
after all these years
when we age and we do not care.
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(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
Harivansh Rai Bachchan
(27 November 1907 – 18 January 2003)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(20 June 1952 -)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
(27 March 1926 – 25 July 1966)
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